


The Truthseer

by Cipheral



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (yes it's relevant), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Eventual Happy Ending, Found Family, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Horror, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, there's some weird dream stuff happening as well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 44,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28657722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cipheral/pseuds/Cipheral
Summary: A narrow escape from a mysterious event finds Jon Sims in the country of Avonrey, rooming with his childhood friend Georgie Barker. After landing a job working as the head librarian at the Avonrey palace library, Jon finds himself neck deep in the exact nonsense he'd left his home of Warcona because of: the Dread Gods. Attacks from mysterious worm ladies, kidnapper clowns, and weird memory-wiping goths are just the start of it, as Jon digs deeper into the lore and history of the country he's found himself in, and the god he unwittingly was chosen by. Whatreallylies deeper within the dusty archives? What does Elias Bouchard want with him? What evenisthe Truthseer? All of these questions are ones that Jon must ask if he wants to learn just why he's been chosen, and how to save the world he knows.
Relationships: Georgie Barker & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, S1 Friend group
Comments: 21
Kudos: 41





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings: spiders, nightmares, choking, accidental self harm (in a dream, not to actual body), wildfire, feeling of dying.

Lights flashed on the horizon, lightning cracking distantly as thunder quietly rolled. It would be several hours until the storm reached Avonrey still, and Jon was rather hoping that he could avoid the worst of it. He was only a couple hours out, and would likely have reached at least _some_ border town by the time the storm arrived, but travelling on foot was never ideal when a storm was brewing.

Avonrey, a country free from the Lady Weaver's grasp, at least for the time being. A haven, in Jon's eyes. Once there, he could breathe, he could relax, stop worrying about his actions being the will of someone else. It was solely a matter of getting there, first.

He had friends who lived there, who he trusted, and who he could hopefully live with until he found an abode he could call his own. Georgie knew him. Georgie had gotten out of Warcona many years ago, back when the two were still teens, and he'd been desperately trying to follow ever since.

Did he know much about the politics in Avonrey? No, he wasn't afraid to admit he did _not_. However, he was desperate, and fairly certain that whatever power, if any, ruled over Avonrey would be better than Warcona's Weaver Queen.

A gust of wind threatened to blow Jon's hood off, and he grasped his cloak tighter around his shoulders. Perhaps the storm was moving faster than he'd anticipated. He picked up his pace, hurrying near-silently through the forest-lined road.

It started pouring just as he crossed the border into Avonrey, a few hours later. He was still quite a ways off from any nearby towns, as far as he could tell. The capital, where Georgie had moved many years ago now, was still several days' travel away on foot.

Jon was lost, barely into a new country, and soaked to the bone.

He reached the first town after an hour of trudging through muddy wagon-wheel tracks and over low, rolling hills. The innkeeper didn't bother to comment on his soaked-through appearance as they asked for payment for the night, thankfully. Jon paid, arms weighted down with rainwater and exhaustion, and thanked the innkeeper as he took his key and made his way upstairs to his room.

The moment the door closed behind him, Jon dropped his packs and began the arduous task of unpacking and drying out the belongings he'd been able to carry. Most of the things in his suitcase had remained mostly dry, much to his relief. He'd kept his more important books, scrolls, and other water-susceptible items in it rather than his rucksack.

Speaking of, practically everything in his rucksack had been soaked just as thoroughly as Jon himself. He carefully unrolled and laid out the clothes he'd packed, hanging the more sodden articles off the heater tucked away off to the side of the room to dry faster.

Once unpacked, Jon stripped down, and made his way to the small washroom that was attached to his bedroom and began to run a bath. The water was far warmer than he normally would run it, but his aching body wasn't complaining about the heat as he lowered himself into the bath. The warmth sank into his skin, drilling deep into his bones and chasing away the chill that had made its home there when the rain had begun. A sigh slipped past his lips as he settled in the water.

He sat there for a while, enjoying the heat, before he sighed, and began to scrub the accumulated grime and dirt from travelling off his skin and out of his hair. The chill of the room was unpleasant as he drained the bath and squeezed as much of the water from his hair as he could. Jon dried himself off with the plush bath towel that sat folded on a metal shelf next to the tub, and made his way back to his bedroom as he wrapped it around his waist.

He picked the clothes sitting on the heater up and lay them around the base of it, close enough that it would still dry overnight, but far enough that he could rest without worrying about them catching fire. He set the towel with them, not wanting it to ruin the floors or any of the wood in the room. Turning off the lamp, he felt his way to the bed and climbed under the covers.

It didn't take long for him to drift off, the heavy warmth of the covers adding to the sensation of safety that being out of Warcona gave him. It was not, however, a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Wind whipped his hair around his head, tangling it and causing it to cover his face and obscure his vision. Above, lightning flashed, though no rain fell. Where was he? He doesn't remember how he'd gotten there, and pushing his hair from his face, clearing his sight didn't aid him.

It was cold, and there was nothing around to shield him from the wind and storm raging above. Not a tree in sight, and the plains were bare of any tall grasses to hide in. He was out in the open, lost in the vast fields of... somewhere. Or perhaps it was nowhere? Without much else to do, he began to walk. He walked and walked and after a while, lost track of time. He had no idea how long he'd been travelling, how far he'd walked. There was still nothing but barren fields, devoid of life.

Dust swirled around him, the small grains sharp and cutting against his bare ankles. The scratches were small, not even visible, but the drops of blood that came off and mixed with the dirt and sand were bright and scarlet against the dark world that he'd found himself in.

He could see no people, no houses or towns, not for miles. There was nothing around him, and the reality that he was alone – no Georgie, no Admiral, no one – hit him all at once. He called out, the wind swallowing his words before they could be heard by even him. He kept walking.

He walked and walked until the soles of his feet bled and the scarlet left a path that led straight to him. He walked until his legs threatened collapse, his knees shaking with every step. Nothing changed. At one point, he thought he saw a foxhole in the dirt, and went to it, but found no signs of life.

A howl on the wind – of the wind? – set his heart racing. He turned, trying to find where it had come from. It came again, faintly, from where his scarlet path faded into the distance. He didn't move.

There was something soothing in the fact that he wasn't out here alone, even if the only other thing seemed to be tracking him – hunting him – in order to kill him. As he heard the howl again, now closer, he sat down. The dry, short, brittle grass picked at his legs, poking through the thin fabric of his trousers and itching his skin.

Another howl, this time slightly different, echoed in the emptiness around him, before silence fell heavy on his ears. A long while he sat there, bleeding slightly on the ground below him, not daring to break the silence. Then, faintly, a hum grew, this time from below him. He ran his palm against the brittle grass, seeing if it did anything to the noise. It grew louder as he brushed his hand back and forth again and again, and he couldn't find it in him to stand up and move on. From a hole no larger than the width of his thumb, a small bee flew out, circled around him a couple times, before returning to its nest.

The buzzing faded, and the wind returned, taking the place of the silence.

Eventually, he stood, and continued walking. After what could have been months, and could have been minutes, there was an acrid smell that the breeze carried towards him. He turned, following the eye-watering smell.

A loud, violent crack echoed throughout the vast wasteland, and a bright flash of light illuminated the area around him. He shut his eyes against the painful white light, opening them again cautiously once he was sure it was gone.

Fire raged in front of him, and he stared at the bright, burning inferno that was quickly consuming the grass. Each second that ticked on, the flame grew and grew, consuming the dry land. For some reason, he didn't feel afraid, even as it licked at his feet, singed the hem of his sleeves, filled his nose with thick, black smoke. He simply continued walking, following a path of blackened grass that smouldered still, but burned no more.

On and on he went, watching horror after horror, repeating over and over. Dirt, thundering sky, black smoke, swarms of bees, and howls in the distance. He walked on.

After centuries, or so he figured it had been, he finally, _finally_ , saw something on the horizon, and made his way towards it.

It was a small house, something that had clearly been made with love and care involved. The outer walls were made of thick, roughly cut stone, and the roof was covered thick with lush, green moss. Smoke rose from the chimney, indicating someone was home. As he made his way around to the front, he took in the details of the small building. The windows were wiped clean, coloured panes in strange patterns making up most of them. Above the door, however, was one that caught his attention far more than the others.

It was in the shape of a pointed oval, with white stained panes in either corner. They surrounded green-stained glass in a large circle, with a smaller, black stained pane in the middle, so it looked like an eye. The strange window stared out over the wasteland, watching it blindly, and it intrigued him.

He knocked on the door, before he even realized what he was doing. His hand seemed to raise on its own before giving three solid, yet polite, raps on the wood. A voice from within the cabin called to him, telling him to come in, though the words weren't in any language he knew.

The moment he opened the door, he knew he had made a mistake. Howling, buzzing, crackling, screaming, explosions. Horrible sounds plagued his ears, the door swinging wide without him even pushing on it. Thick, heavy smoke filled his throat as the smell of old rot and fresh blood filled his nose, causing him to retch. He collapsed, heaving, in the entrance of the building.

He gripped at his throat, trying to get a breath in, choking on nothing as his mind became cloudy from lack of air. His chest burned, and his skin screamed from a hundred sensations all tearing at his nerves at once.

As he started to fade, feeling his vision black out and his mind begin to numb, a strange calmness gripped him, and he coughed out a laugh. Of course this place wouldn't let him pass peacefully in the fields he'd been wandering for what now felt like his whole life. Of course it would slam him with every sensation known to man at once, choking him, killing him in every way at the same time.

As he felt the acceptance of his situation wash over him in waves, everything stopped. Just as suddenly as it had begun, every smell, every sound and sensation and emotion all vanished at once. The sudden nothingness, sudden calm, left him gasping.

His hands slammed down on the floorboards in front of him as he gasped air into his lungs, his head swimming from lack of air and over-stimulation. Minutes passed, and he began to feel his body calm down from the adrenaline rush of near-death. Once able to, he looked up, and saw a strange man standing in the cabin.

His greying hair was slicked back, and his clothes were impeccably tailored to fit. He wore thin, wire-rimmed glasses that sat low on his nose as he stared down with a knowing smirk. He raised his hand, and snapped.

* * *

Jon woke with a start, gasping for breath as he threw the covers off himself. He sat there for a long moment, willing his heart to stop racing as he panted. Standing up, he went to the window, cracking the curtains open to check how late he'd slept.

The sun was barely rising over the horizon, all traces of the storm from the day before long-gone now. The sky was pale blue, with the faintest hints of pink and purple starting to crest with the sun itself. Jon hadn't been up this early in quite a while, and he took in the sight with a strange sense of familiarity.

It was a new land, a new country, a new start, and yet the sunrise was just as beautiful as it had been back in Warcona. It was still the same sun, the same sky above him, even if the land was different. It must have been incredibly early, he figured, considering how far south he was still, and the time of year. With a yawn and a long stretch, Jon opened one of the curtains and went about his morning.

He checked to make sure everything he had laid out the night before was dry now, folding and rolling each article of clothing up neatly before tucking it into his rucksack. He went over the contents of his miraculously dry suitcase, double checking none of the (rather few) photos he had brought with him had been damaged, and that all of the books were in the same condition as he'd packed them in. Any food he had brought with him had been soaked through in the front pocket of his rucksack, and it was with a heavy sigh that he decided to throw most of it out. Getting dressed in a fresh set of travelling clothes, Jon tucked the outfit from the previous day into his suitcase, not wanting it to mix with his still-clean garments.

Bags packed, he hefted them up and made his way back downstairs to the foyer of the inn. He returned the key to the innkeeper with a polite nod, and a thanks for the hospitality he'd been offered. He didn't even think about the strange look that the innkeeper gave him as they silently took the key back, not taking their eyes off him as they slid it onto its proper hook behind them.

As Jon made his way through the streets of the small border town, he didn't notice the double-takes and stares he got. He restocked the food he'd had to throw out and grabbed breakfast at a rather quaint restaurant, attention too taken up by trying to remember the strange dreams – or were they nightmares – he had had the night before.

He knew there was something important about them, something he _should_ be remembering very vividly, but he couldn't recall anything. The most that he could think of was a strange burning in his throat from when he had woken up.

The process repeated nightly during his travels. He wasn't as rushed to reach the capital as he had been to simply get out of Warcona, so many of his nights were spent on the road. Camping out in tucked away burrows and caves that he came across, or curled up at the roots of a tree, wrapped in a blanket he'd picked up on the way out of that first town. It was odd, he found. Normally, he would be worried about not remembering his dreams, especially when they felt so significant the next day, but he chalked it up to being away from the Weaver Queen's lands.

It had been ten days since he had crossed the border by the time he reached the capital city. His feet ached, and the muscles in his legs burned as he dragged himself to city hall around mid-day.

The queue was long inside the building, and Jon wanted nothing more than to sit down on one of the benches and wait until it dwindled later in the day. He stood his ground in line, begrudgingly, and when he reached the front, stumbled over his words when speaking to the receptionist.

“I, um, I'm looking for the business of Miss Georgie Barker? I'm a childhood friend here to visit for a while, but she never gave me an address to find her at,” he sighed, rubbing at his forehead.

The receptionist glanced up at him from the large book sat in front of her, and raised her eyebrows. “Barker, you said?”

“Yes, Georgina Barker is her name. A-A business address or, if possible, a home address? She didn't give me either in the last letter she wrote.”

The receptionist nodded slowly, and flipped through her book. After a few moments she let out a quiet “aha!” and took out a pen. Writing with decisive strokes, she jotted down the address she'd found and handed the slip to Jon. “I will need a name to put on record. Just in case anything happens.”

“Oh! Um,” Jon stuttered, nearly dropping the paper as he took it from her. “Jonathan Sims is the name you can put down. Apologies for not giving that before.”

The receptionist laughed at that. “None needed, sir. Have a good day! Next!”

Jon picked up his suitcase and looked at the slip in his hand in a daze. It seemed like Georgie ran a small tailoring business in town. He asked around, nervously stopping passersby about how he could get to Barker's Seamstress. Each person who he stopped glanced around as if expecting someone else to be with Jon, but gave their aid after a moment, as helpfully as they could.

He did make it to the shop, after a time. It was a beautiful building, sturdy, dark wooden walls and a wrought iron fence surrounding the small property. The windows were bright and spotless, with white curtains hanging on the opposite side, and storm-shutters locked open. Cautiously, he made his way to the door, smiling at the welcome mat outside that was decorated with cat-prints. He wasn't sure if he should knock or not, but settled to knock to announce himself before entering.

The inside was just as impeccable as the exterior, with polished cobblestone floors covered in lovely woven carpets that must have cost a fortune. Hangers and racks of clothes lined the wall behind the counter, and a curtain-covered doorway separated the shopfront from the workspace behind. A small bell jingled overhead as he closed the door behind him, setting his luggage down with a relieved sigh.

“I'll be with you in a minute!” called a familiar voice from the back, the curtain muffling it slightly.

True to her word, Georgie's familiar face poked out from behind the curtain not a minute later. She started a standard greeting before looking properly at who was standing in her doorway and faltering.

“Jon?” she said, disbelief lacing her tone.

He nodded. “I made it. It took a while, but I got out,” he said, a laugh bubbling up in his chest. The reality of the situation was sinking in and it was a little bit overwhelming.

Georgie, ever perceptive, immediately came out from behind the counter, pulling Jon into a tight hug. She held him close as he shook with the realization that he was free, that he was safe. After a long while, she pulled back, keeping her hands on his shoulders.

“I'm going to close the shop, and then we're going to bring you upstairs to the flat, alright?” she said, voice gentle.

Jon nodded, silently wiping away the tears that were running down his face and picking his rucksack up once more. He watched Georgie flip the sign in the window to closed and lock up the front door. She closed the windows, and pulled the curtains closed where the breeze had shifted them. Lifting his suitcase with ease, she grinned at him and led the way to the back of the shop.

The back was filled with racks of clothing. Dresses hung on hangers, their bodices carefully unlaced and skirts resting just above the ground while robes, trousers, tunics, and shirts lay carefully on tables and shelves. Slips of parchment littered the clothes, pins holding them to fabric so they didn't get blown away.

Georgie led him through the slight maze to a staircase that disappeared upwards into what Jon assumed was her flat. She motioned for him to go first, following behind him closely, her skirts dragging behind her where she wasn't rucking them up.

Jon carefully pushed open a door at the top of the staircase, kicking his shoes off on the upper landing after a glance back at Georgie. Picking his shoes up, he stepped into the flat, and took a deep breath in.

“Let's put this in the spare room, and then talk?” she asked, pushing past him ever-so-gracefully.

“Of course. I think I owe an explanation as to why I'm showing up after not responding to any of your letters for the last several months,” he muttered, following her.

At the far end of the hall, she pushed open a rather lovely and intricate looking door, revealing a slightly dusty but well-kept bedroom. She set his suitcase down and gave him a pat on the shoulder as she made her way back past him.

“I'll be in the kitchen, alright?”

He simply nodded, dropping his rucksack beside his suitcase. The door shut quietly behind him as he carefully walked further into the room, turning slowly to take it in.

There was a small bed pushed into the far right corner of the room, it's plush quilts and comforters undisturbed for likely ages but no less welcoming for it. A large curtain-covered window sat in the middle of the wall opposite the door, a small desk tidily tucked beneath it waiting to be used. To the left side of the room, a large, dark oak wardrobe stood. Stately in its appearance, Jon couldn't resist the urge to open it and see if there was anything in it. It was empty, dusty, but quite large enough to hold everything that Jon had brought with him, if the drawers at the bottom were also able to be used.

He went about unpacking silently, hanging up his shirts in the wardrobe and folding his trousers into the drawers. His clothes took up barely any room, but he figured that that was fine for now. It wasn't like he was known for having a large and elaborate wardrobe, never being seen in the same outfit twice. He tucked his books and scrolls on a tall, thin bookshelf that was next to the door, slotting them carefully alongside the few photo albums and books already there. The photos he had brought, along with the pens and ink bottle he'd nearly forgotten about, all ended up on the desk.

Wanting to get some light into the room, and to maybe air out the slightly musty smell it held, Jon tugged open the curtains before cracking the window just a bit. It was enough to get a slight breeze coming in, cooling him off, but not enough that he was worried about his photos being blown around.

He stood there for a few more moments, looking around at the room he would be staying for... he wasn't sure how long. It was hard, trying to imagine it as home, trying to imagine this being where he would be living now. Spotting his shoes by the door, he sighed and picked them up, preparing to face Georgie.

Carefully he made his way back to the living area, setting his shoes next to the door on the mat before taking his cloak off and hanging it on the coat rack. Hands grabbing at his upper arms, he made his way to the kitchen.

The smell of tea greeted him as he got near, and he felt his nerves ease. When he poked his head into the kitchen, he was greeted by the sight of Georgie standing at the counter.

“Do you even know how I take my tea?” he asked, a huff of laughter coming out with the question.

Georgie glanced behind her and rolled her eyes at him before turning her attention back to the cups in front of her. “You're a fool if you think that I don't know you take it any other way than black,” she teased.

“Well, you did get that right. Even after all these years, you can still read me like an open book... mostly. I've taken to adding sugar sometimes the last couple years.”

Setting the two saucers on the small table tucked into the corner of the kitchen, she rolled her eyes at him yet again. “Sit down, why don't you. What's got you here anyways? Did things take a turn for the worst back in Warcona?”

Pulling out the seat across from her, he collapsed into it, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “That would be putting it lightly,” he grumbled, leaning forward over the table. “The Weaver-Queen had some... _interesting_ requests of me, to say the least. I couldn't pass the line she wanted me to cross, so I fled. I packed in the middle of the night, bare essentials and some things I couldn't bear to part with, and left.”

“And now you're here? There's more to it than that, Jon, you're leaving things out. What was it she wanted you to do?”

Jon shook his head. “I can't say right now. It's... too fresh. I- Georgie, I almost couldn't _not_ do it. My body wanted me to- I wasn't in control of myself. I-I... I needed to leave. The influence was too strong.”

Georgie hummed, stirring her tea. She stared into it, eyebrows creased in thought. “So what now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you going to be staying in Avonrey? Or are you going to try and get further away from Warcona and Her Lady's influence?”

Now _that_ was a question. He hadn't considered going further, leaving Warcona far behind and leaving for the furthest corners of the continent, never to see his old home again. He could, though. He could do that, and the thought was as tempting as it was intimidating.

“For now, I think I'll be staying, if that's alright with you. You always told me I had a home with you, and... well, I understand if that's changed, but I can't help but hope it hasn't,” he said, choosing his words carefully.

Georgie glanced up, tension in her face easing, and gave him a gentle smile. “Of course, Jon. What about work? I don't mind covering you for some time while you look for jobs, but I _will_ expect you to help out financially at some point.”

“Well, it's not like I know where all is hiring, now do I?” Jon teased, taking a sip of the tea. It burned in a pleasant way, and tasted of home.

She laughed at that, shaking her head. “What am I going to do with you?” she laughed. Most of the time, Jon had heard that asked in a way that was scolding, but with Georgie, it was completely fond.

* * *

Months passed, Jon picking up odd jobs around the city, helping out where he could as best as he could. Working as a royal advisor in Warcona hadn't really lent itself well to manual labour, but he worked hard and learned fast, so he was never without _something_ to do.

It was nearing autumn when Jon had gotten home to Georgie shoving a paper in his face the moment he opened the door to the flat. He batted it down so he could step in proper before taking it and looking it over.

“And this is...?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at the flyer she so _kindly_ shoved at him.

“Something new!” she said, hands on her hips. “I know that you've been handling things pretty well, and I'm certainly not complaining about the fact you've been able to help out with the jobs around the house because of the jobs you've been taking. I know you, though, and I know you prefer working on a set schedule rather than sporadically like you have been.”

He glanced down at the flyer once more, skepticism fading just slightly upon hearing her reasoning. “I suppose I'm qualified enough to apply...” he muttered, flipping the page over. “Are you sure, though? This isn't something that... I did leave Warcona to kind of... _avoid_ getting involved in this scene further. Again.”

Georgie's smile softened, and she crossed her arms. “Yeah I know, but this isn't an advisor's job like your last one was. Or at least, you can avoid asking about those positions, if any are open.”

Jon hummed, folding the paper up and tucking it into the pocket on his jacket as he hung it up. “I... will consider it. I'll attend, but I can't say if I'll accept anything that they offer, if they offer anything.”

A job at the palace was not something Jon was particularly interested in, especially in the neighbouring country to Warcona. It was a bit too close to home to be comfortable to him, and while Georgie was right about his preference for schedules, he honestly found palace work dreadfully boring.

“All that goes on in places like that is gossip, you know that right?” he asked, setting his boots aside and padding into the kitchen to make tea.

“That's why I know you're someone good for it! You hate gossip!”

He raised an eyebrow at that.

“I mean, who else would be safer to be allowed that close to such high-ranked secrets and such than someone who can't be bothered to actually listen to any of it? It just makes sense, don't you think?”

With a noncommittal hum, he spooned out the sugar for Georgie's tea. He would think about it, he decided, but likely not take anything.

* * *

Somehow, Jon ended up at the palace on the day that the interviews were taking place, dressed as nicely as he could, with proof of his work experience on hand. He wasn't enjoying it.

The people around were almost exactly what he expected from the sort who would want to work in the palace. A lot of people who looked worse off than him, mixed with people whose heads were so high he figured they could barely see past the tip of their noses. He felt for the poorer folk, however, and hoped that they got positions. Potentially some would be working alongside him, if things went as Georgie hoped they would.

All in all, it was dreadfully bland, waiting for someone to summon him in for an intake interview. Some of the more snobbish people attempted to talk to him, voicing their disdain for the less fortunate who were trying to get jobs. That stopped quite fast when he told one of them he'd much rather work with the lot of them than a single aristocrat.

“Jonathan Sims?” a voice called, catching his attention.

“Yes?” he said, standing slowly.

“Mr. Bouchard will see you now, if you'll just follow me?” the woman said, glancing down at her clipboard.

Wordlessly he followed, picking at his cuticles absentmindedly. The woman – Bouchard's receptionist he assumed – led him down a short corridor, white walls and stone floor feeling very professional as the click of both of their heels echoed around them. She stopped at an ornate mahogany door, the centrepiece being a large realistic carving of an eye with a brass knocker under it. She nodded and he reached out to knock once.

A brief moment of silence followed, before a crisp, cool voice called, “Come in,” from the other side of the door. Jon gave the woman a nervous smile and thanks before opening the door.

The room he walked into was not what he expected to see. The walls were plastered and painted a deep green, the wooden support beams stained deep brown and bare. In the centre of the room sat a large wooden desk that looked meticulously organized. Behind it, in an ornate chair, the man Jon assumed was Mr. Bouchard sat.

He was an older man, dark grey salt and pepper hair slicked back, with not a single piece out of place as he smiled placidly at Jon. His suit was tailored perfectly and was the same green as the walls of the room. Something about him seemed far too familiar to Jon, and he didn't enjoy it.

“Mr. Sims, it's a pleasure to meet you,” he said, gesturing at a chair opposite of him. “Please, have a seat and let's discuss why you're here.”

Jon nodded and followed the instructions. Without thinking, he slipped into the posture he'd grown used to back in the palace in Warcona; back straight, shoulders relaxed, and head level. “It's a pleasure to meet you,” he said, holding a hand out for Bouchard to take.

He looked at Jon's outstretched hand with a smile before taking it, giving it a firm shake before folding his hands neatly on his desk once more. “Quite, I agree. Now, you're here looking for work, am I correct?”

“You are, yes.”

“May I see records of your past employment?”

Jon nodded, and held out the small stack of papers he'd brought with him. They detailed both the time in Warcona from before he'd left, as well as just about every odd job he'd taken since arriving in Avonrey.

Bouchard was silent as he flipped over the recent jobs, scanning them with something akin to boredom in his eyes. When he reached the final page, however, his eyebrows quirked up, and his focus narrowed. He read over the page that detailed all of his previous work with the Warconan royal court with interest, glancing up at Jon every once in a while when something particularly interesting caught his eye.

After a minute, he gathered the papers up once more and handed them back to Jon. “Well, Mr. Sims, I believe you will be a fine fit here. If you would like, I'd like to have a longer, more in-depth meeting about what it is I'd like to hire you for later this week?”

Jon blinked, taking the papers back in a momentary stunned silence. After a moment of gawking at Bouchard, he nodded, slowly. “I... believe I can agree to that, yes. I can't guarantee I'll accept the position offered to me, but I'm willing to have a second meeting to discuss it,” he said, picking his words carefully.

Bouchard gave him a curious look. “What do you mean? You did come here on your own accord to apply for a position, correct?”

“I did, yes, but it was a recommendation from a friend more than anything. She knows I prefer to work on schedule, rather than doing the type of work I've been doing. So, here I am,” Jon explained. “I do hope that the position I'm offered, at least, isn't quite the same as I had back in Warcona. I prefer not to deal with the personal dealings of the royal courts. Not really my... favourite area to work in, to put it lightly.”

“Not a fan of the gossip, are you?” Bouchard laughed, shaking his head slightly. “Well, fear not, I didn't plan on making you an assistant of the high court. I'll send someone to the address you gave with more information?”

“That sounds fine.”

Bouchard smiled, and Jon couldn't help but feel a chill run down his spine at the expression. He paused, hand on the door handle, and asked, “Have we met before? You seem... strangely familiar.”

When the grin on Bouchard's face widened, he knew that he certainly had never met Bouchard. However, he was also gravely sure about the fact that Bouchard knew _him_ somehow.

“Perhaps in passing. We hopefully will be getting to know each other quite well, if things work out in both of our favour, though,” he said, turning his attention to a page on his desk, eyes scanning it. “I'll be seeing you then, Mr. Sims.”

Jon left, but the feeling of Bouchard's eyes lingered on the back of his neck until he got home.

* * *

The letter arrived the next day, sitting neatly inside the front door where it had fallen through the mail slot. Jon picked it up nervously, awaiting the feeling of being watched. When it didn't come, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and flipped the letter over in his hands.

_“From the office of His Majesty, to one Jonathan Sims,_

_Elias Bouchard would like to formally extend an offer of employment at the Avonrey Royal Palace. On behalf of His Majesty, please arrive in three days at one hour past midday for a private meeting to discuss terms of employment._

_Signed,_

_Rosie Leufeild_

_Secretary of Palace Avonrey.”_

Jon stared at the page for a long moment, processing it. He had a formal meeting with this Elias Bouchard in three days' time, and he had no idea who the man even was.

Making his way back up to the flat above the store, Jon called out to Georgie.

“Uh, Georgie? You know the Avonrey royal court better than I do, can I ask you something?” he said, still looking at the letter as he wandered into the kitchen.

Georgie was standing at the counter, sharpening a knife that Jon deeply hoped was going to be for preparing the vegetables in front of her. She set the knife down on the cutting board before gesturing for him to hand over the letter.

As she read, her eyebrows raised and eyes widened considerably. “So, when did you plan on telling me you had an interview with the literal king of Avonrey?” she asked, teasingly.

Jon blinked at her in confusion, taking the letter back and looking it over, eyeing the stamp that had held it together. He recognized the design, then, and paused.

“Bouchard is the king... or at least the acting king. He doesn't actually hold the ruling title, but he's the closest thing to it that we've got,” Georgie explained. “We don't have a Truthseer, haven't for a while, apparently. That's Avonrey's equivalent to the Grand-Weaver.”

“What? Avonrey has a Dread God?”

“Yep, sure does! Bouchard's official title is, if I'm remembering this right, the Seer-king, but he's not... he doesn't have the full blessing that a full Truthseer would have.”

Sitting down, Jon pinched the bridge of his nose, setting his glasses on the table next to him. “But what does that _mean_ , Georgie? I-I know that the Weaver-Queen is also the Grand-Weaver, and has the full blessing of the Web, but... What's it like if the leader in question doesn't actually have access to the full powers the Dread Gods grant?” he asked.

Georgie took a seat opposite him, folding her hands in front of her with a sigh. “Alright, so... The full powers of the Truthseer are lost to history, from what I've heard. Avonrey was founded by the first Truthseer, Jonah Magnus. Like most blessed by the Dread Gods, he was nearly immortal, his life lasting a few centuries before he passed on, and left the next blessed in charge. This was the case for about two and a half millennia?

“Anyways, around two centuries ago, the Truthseer in charge passed away suddenly, without being able to give their blessing to the next-in-line they'd chosen. Their heir did manage to obtain a partial blessing, which extended their life, and granted them _some_ of the powers a fully-fledged Truthseer would have. That's been the situation for the last two hundred years, give or take. Apparently, there just hasn't been anyone able to handle the full blessing by the Watcher. They either die or... well, Bouchard was lucky to get as far as he did without being destroyed.”

Jon took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, carefully, to keep calm. He really didn't want to get involved with any more of the Dread Gods after Warcona, and learning that Avonrey was the domain of the Watcher wasn't reassuring.

After a long moment, he shrugged, feeling a sense of resignation come over him. “Better than the Web. It's... better than the Web. The Watcher is far from my preference for Dread God involvement, but it's one of the better ones.”

“Is your preference none?”

“Precisely.”

Georgie laughed, and left him to process the new information about Avonrey.

He didn't like it, that he was sure of. What it was that he didn't like? Less sure of. Jon wasn't able to tell if it was learning he was in the domain of the Watcher he didn't like, or if it was the fact he... wasn't put off of Avonrey after learning that that left him feeling slightly ill. At least he could explain the feeling of being watched after he'd left Bouchard's – Elias' – office now.

It was with that same nausea and malaise that he found himself in that same waiting room from his initial interview three days later. He fiddled with the buttons on his sleeve cuffs, tugged at the collar of his jacket, and generally did just about anything that kept his hands busy. He tried to tell himself that it was no big deal, that he'd already made a good first impression on the goddamned king of the country, apparently... it didn't work.

When the receptionist – Rosie, as he'd learned – came to get him, she paused, giving him a curious once-over.

“You seem far more nervous than the last time I saw you,” she teased, shooting him a sympathetic smile as she opened the door to the same hallway from before.

“Yes, well, I was rather _ignorant_ before of who it was that I was meeting with,” Jon muttered, trying to return the smile, but knowing it didn't quite come through.

Rosie laughed, covering her mouth as she led him along. “I was wondering why you seemed so much more relaxed than everyone else. You're new to Avonrey, then?”

“Ah, yes. It's – well it's only been a few months since I arrived. Warcona was... a bit much by the end of it.”

Jon reached out and used the heavy brass knocker as they reached the door at the end of the hall, thanking Rosie for the company as Bouchard called him into the office.

The room was exactly the same as it had been before; the only difference being Bouchard standing in front of his desk, papers in hand as he grinned at Jon in a way that set Jon's teeth on edge.

“I'm glad to see that you were able to make it, Mr. Sims,” he said, reaching out a hand for Jon to shake. He did so, reluctantly. “How have your last few days been?”

“They've been well, thank you. I... look forward to hearing what exactly the position you'd like to offer me is,” Jon replied, barely refraining from wiping his hand on the leg of his trousers. The strange little man before him unsettled and mildly disgusted him now that he knew he was connected with the Dread Gods, yes, but he didn't really want to get on the bad side of the standing Seer-King.

Bouchard glanced down at the papers in his hands for just a moment, as if considering which would appeal to Jon the most, before looking back up and motioning for Jon to follow. “I wasn't sure where exactly it is that I planned on offering, as there are several positions that someone with the experience you have could easily fit,” he explained. “However, I do believe that... the rather desperate need for a head librarian we have is something that will appeal to you.”

Unfortunately, Jon couldn't disagree with that. “I never really got a chance to visit the palace library back in Warcona. Is your need for a head librarian desperate enough to hire someone with no background in the field?” he said. He didn't want to test his luck – especially considering the sharp pique of interest that sprung up at the offer – but he figured it better that Bouchard knew he'd never even stepped into a private library before, let alone one of this level of importance.

The other man laughed, nodding slowly. “Yes, it certainly is. While you may not have any formal training in the field, there are other qualifications that make you the number one candidate out of everyone that I've interviewed.”

Jon didn't have a chance to retort before Bouchard turned a corner and they were face to face with a pair of ornate wooden doors. The wooden planks were thick, held together with solid iron barring, and were nearly twice as tall as Jon was. On each door, a strange and familiar stained glass window sat, though once more he couldn't figure out why it was so familiar.

Each window was small, the shape of a pointed oval, and the outer corners and tops were lined with white stained panes. The irises of what Jon was assuming were a pair of eyes were deep green, much like the walls of Bouchard's office, and in the centre of each sat a circular black pane that made the pupil.

Looking up, Jon noticed two inscriptions above the door. The first he assumed to be the library's name and it read _The Magnus Archives_. Just below, were three words in a language Jon didn't understand that read _Audio. Vigilo. Opperior._

“Here we are,” Bouchard said, pushing open one of the doors with surprising ease after he'd given Jon a moment to take the sight in. “The esteemed library. In the past it functioned more as a proper archive, but over the centuries it's slowly changed. There is, of course, still a rather large section that is considered the archive, but just over half of the content in here is more modern, and is allowed to be handled by those who get permission to visit the library. The archived areas are exclusively for palace officials, and those from other royal libraries and Archives. However...”

Jon tuned Bouchard out as he looked around the grand library. From where he stood, he was able to see rows upon rows of tomes and scrolls all tucked neatly into bookshelves stretching on towards the back. Directly in the way of the centre aisle sat a reception desk, dark wood shining, name plaque blank, and the service bell polished. There was a second story balcony that appeared to also be completely filled with packed shelves. A large and magnificent chandelier hung down in the centre of the room, dipping into the cut-away section of the upper floor.

“... there are a few assistants already employed, so you're not going to be working alone if you do accept the offer,” Bouchard – had he asked Jon to call him Elias at some point during everything Jon had tuned out? -- said. He looked at Jon expectantly, only to shake his head when he noticed Jon's completely lost expression. “I assume you got caught up in taking in the sight of the library?”

“Oh- I, uh... Yes, I'm afraid so. My apologies,” Jon sputtered. “I did catch the start of your explanation, and the mention of assistants?”

“Visitors to the library will present the front desk with written permission to be allowed in, unless they directly speak with you. There are three assistants currently employed, so you will not be stocking, archiving, or running the desk alone,” Bouchard explained, trying to keep things brief now. “You'll get _quite_ a handsome pay if you do accept as well, details of which I'd prefer to discuss in my office if you wish to know further. So, Mr. Sims, would you be interested in working here?”

Jon paused for a moment, considering the offer. The library was quiet, there wouldn't be much public interaction – which was a plus. It wasn't that he _disliked_ interacting with people, it just was that day in and day out it grew a bit tiresome. Not only that, but he would have assistants to handle some of the work he either didn't understand, or that he just would rather not have to manage. All in all, he couldn't exactly complain about the job prospects, even if Bouchard gave him the creeps.

“I do believe that I am. Thank you for this opportunity, Mr. Bouchard. And please, if I'm going to be working here, feel free to call me Jon,” he said.

Bouchard grinned at him and held out a hand. Jon was getting tired of shaking his hand at this point. It was unpleasantly warm and slightly clammy every time, and this time was no different.

“I'm incredibly pleased to hear that, Jon. The sentiment goes to you as well: feel free to call me Elias.”

“I don't think I can legally do that,” Jon laughed. It was a tense and awkward laugh, and he felt odd trying to joke with the man who was not only his new boss, but also the Seer-King of Avonrey.

“Nonsense. You have my direct permission to do so.”

Jon stared at him for a second before slowly, carefully, nodding. “Well, then, thank you Elias, for this opportunity.”

Elias grinned once more, a strange glint in his eyes as he thanked Jon for accepting the position, and Jon felt his blood run cold.

* * *

Three months had passed since Elias had hired Jon to work as the head librarian in the royal palace, and Jon was... having a hard time adjusting to it. His coworkers were fine, he supposed. He got on well enough with Tim, and Sasha was quite incredible at her job. It was honestly a wonder to him why she hadn't been given the promotion to head librarian. Martin, however, was a mystery to him. The man seemed to have a knack for handling the social aspect of the job, but the technical aspects he was wildly lacking in. It was almost to the point where Jon wondered if Martin had even less experience than he did.

Georgie had been thrilled when he'd told her he'd gotten the job, and was apparently on first name basis with the Seer-King. She picked up his habit of just calling the man Elias around the house incredibly quick. She also had asked Jon about his thoughts on moving, getting a larger shop and flat now that they could afford more. He hadn't had an opinion when she asked initially, but after a month of thinking on it... he figured it wouldn't hurt to look into it.

The only thing that Jon could really find himself able to complain about were the strange dreams he kept having. At first, he'd chalked it up to the stress of the new job, but even after he'd gotten used to the routine, they persisted. Not only that, he could barely remember any details of them a few minutes after waking. He'd tried to jot them down in a journal, but found the entries... lacking.

Some were the vague feeling of being chased, hunted. The sensation of knowing there was some being pursuing him. Other times, he found the lingering sensation of having a successful hunt upon waking, the role being reversed. Similarly, there were dreams where all he could remember was a frenzied, blinding rage. A desire to rip and rend and tear just to relish in the violence of it, just to feel the flesh under his palms. He didn't enjoy these dreams much.

Some nights he woke after the abrupt sensation of falling from a high place, with a persistent nagging in his mind that he'd just been soaring higher than the clouds. In contrast, sometimes he woke up gasping for breath as he fought against a crushing sensation that surrounded him on all sides and made breathing nigh impossible. He wasn't a fan of these either.

On more pleasant nights, there was a vague memory of fog, of solitude, that clouded his mind in his waking hours. Oftentimes he tucked himself away in his office when he woke with that feeling, not wanting to bring the mood in the library down. Similarly, he did so when he woke up with a strange feeling that the people around him weren't who they seemed to be.

He also found himself sleeping with the lights on some nights, or refusing to return home if night had fallen while he'd been engrossed in paperwork.

One of the more unsettling feelings he remembered upon waking was that of his surroundings being not quite right. Some mornings he awoke feeling as if all his furniture had been moved a few centimetres to the left, or that the colours on his walls were just a bit wrong.

He very much hated the mornings he woke from his slumber with a bone-deep knowledge that he had either died or nearly died in the dreams he'd had the night before.

Some days the smell of smoke wouldn't leave him, the acrid tang burning the back of his throat and making his eyes water. Some, he wouldn't be able to shake the sensation of bugs crawling all over him, even when he couldn't see them, knew they weren't there.

The ones he hated the most, however, were the ones he'd gotten far too used to.

Days where he woke in a cold sweat, swearing under his breath as he tried to shake the feelings of cobwebs and spiders' legs from his skin. Where he would avoid people, not because he was worried about them, or because he was afraid he would bring the mood down, but because he wasn't sure if he was in control of his own body. He'd hoped he'd escaped those dreams by now, that feeling that haunted him since he was a child back in Warcona. Apparently, he was not so lucky.

He didn't think they could get worse than that, though. He had hoped that they couldn't. Truly, his fear of spiders, of someone else manipulating him into doing their bidding, couldn't be outdone, right?

He had been quite wrong.

The worst nights – the worst mornings, days, evenings – were the ones where he woke up feeling refreshed. Normally, this would be fine with him. He'd woken up refreshed before he'd gotten the job at the library, and it was pleasant to him. But no, this was different. He could feel it in his veins.

The days he woke up refreshed were the worst ones, because he was always able to remember the dreams from the night before. He remembered Watching, unable to move, as others fell to the same things he could only vaguely recall on other nights. The full horrors of the visions and dreams clinging to him for hours after he'd woken up. He hated it; hated knowing everything he'd seen and having to dodge questions from his coworkers about if he was okay.

Because he was. Those days where he walked the library stacks with nightmares clinging vividly to him were the days that he felt more refreshed and well-rested than any others. They were days where he felt like he'd just had a pleasant meal, and like nothing could get him down – if he had been able to shake off the images that plagued his mind. He felt rested, content, _full_ , and that was the worst. Because he knew that it was him that had brought those dreams to the people he had seen, and that _that_ was why he felt satisfied.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: typical Lonely-esque horror, mild warning for mentions of throwing up near the end.

Jon was running late. In the nine months since he'd started working at the palace library, he hadn't been late even once. It was his own fault that that was about to change, sure, but he was still rather ticked off about that fact.

Georgie was already out of the flat, working on opening up shop down below, by the time he had dragged himself out of bed. He got dressed in a frenzy, barely taking the time to tie his tie properly before grabbing his bag and rushing out the door. Georgie laughed as he bolted past her, out the front door and into the streets of the capital.

It had been a rough night, one of the ones that left him with a lingering feeling that he'd died or come near it during the night. Not the worst, no, but not far from it in his opinion. Those nights always left him not wanting to get out of bed, but never feeling at ease enough to doze off again... at least not usually. He'd somehow managed it this morning.

Martin was already at the front desk, and he jumped when he saw Jon panting in the doorway, looking like a dead man walking.

“Christ, what- Jon you look-” he stuttered, hands waving and twitching as he tried to find the words he was looking for. “You look a mess? What _happened_?”

Jon sighed, slumping against the doorway and pinching his nose. He'd forgotten his glasses at home in his rush out the door. “I had a... rough morning is all,” he said. “Where are the others?”

As if on cue, Tim stepped out of one of the aisles, freezing mid-step when he saw Jon. A look of pure glee slowly spread across his face as the realization of what was going on dawned on him. He made his way over, smirk on his lip and stack of books in his arms. Setting the books on the desk, he leaned towards Jon with his hands on his hips.

“You're late!” he practically cheered, mirth glittering in his eyes.

“Yes, Tim, I am. We- we all have off days, I don't see why I'm exempt from this,” Jon said, exhaustion seeping ever deeper into him.

“Yeah, well, usually your off days consist of you locking yourself in your office and refusing to talk to anyone, or sleeping at your desk. Never thought you'd be the kind to be late when having an off day, all things considered. Have you ever even been late before now?”

“No, I haven't. I had a rough morning is all, it's nothing to- it's not a big deal.”

“Jon? Did you just get here?” a voice from behind him asked, and Jon refrained from sighing as he glanced over his shoulder.

Sasha stood there, papers in hand and bag over her shoulder as she blinked at him in shock.

“Yes, Sasha, I did. Now will everyone _please_ get to work?” he grumbled, pushing off the doorway and making his way to the back of the library. His three assistants watched after him for a moment before breaking into a hushed discussion that Jon could only assume was about him.

Once in his office, he locked the door. He wasn't particularly in the mood for dealing with gossip, and while it made him seem far less sociable than usual, he couldn't find it in himself to care. It was with a sense of relief that he threw himself into his work.

He copied down old statements, pouring over old documents and tomes and jotting down information that may need to be reviewed or clarified for hours. It was relaxing, in its own way. He never had to think about happenings in the palace, his home, or even his own mind as he carefully went through the old books, jotting down on fresh paper things that seemed off or were illegible.

It was a knock on his door that eventually forced him out of his focus, the sound jarring on his ears. He set his pen down, marking the page he was on in the book he was going over with a simple scrap of fabric as he got up and unlocked the door.

Opening it revealed Martin on the other side, looking nervous as ever. “I, um, brought tea?” he said, holding up a cup and saucer that was cradled in his hands.

Jon looked at the cup for a moment before looking over at his desk that was covered in precious historical documents and their transcripts. He looked back at Martin and the tea and sighed. He almost thought he should ask his doctor if the amount of sighing he'd been doing was healthy, but pushed the thought away after a moment.

“Thank you, Martin,” he said, “but I don't think having tea around incredibly old historical documents that I'm meant to keep in as impeccable condition as physically possible would be a particularly good idea.”

Martin took a deep breath, face contorting in a pained grimace. “Ah, yeah, I can, uh... Yeah. I-I mean it's almost midday? You could probably use a break for lunch, right?”

“... You're not going to let me just get back to work, are you?” Jon asked.

Tim popped his head into view then, walking up and putting a hand on Martin's shoulder. “Nope! We aren't. I doubt you've had anything to drink today, let alone anything to eat, and you need a break.”

Before Jon could protest, Tim let go of Martin and grabbed onto his wrist, tugging him along. He stumbled a bit, trying to keep up with Tim's pace. The other man was a fair bit taller than he was, and it took a few solid tugs before Tim got the gist. He slowed enough that Jon wasn't tripping over himself, but didn't stop tugging him out towards the library doors.

Jon tugged his wrist free after a moment, hand sliding through Tim's hand. Hand free, he stopped and rubbed at his wrist for a moment. “I'm just fine, Tim, really. I-I don't see what all the fuss is about.”

Tim gave him a flat look, crossing his arms over his chest as he turned to face Jon. “Yeah, alright, I believe that,” he said. “Seriously, you got here this morning – late – looking like you just got run over by a carriage. Like, gods, Jon, your shirt's been buttoned wrong all day and you haven't even _noticed_.”

He swore, hands flying up to fix the buttons on his shirt. “Really, Tim, I just had a rough night. It's nothing to worry about, nothing out of the ordinary.”

Tim watched him for a moment, eyes narrowed. After a moment he shrugged, tossing his hands up. “... Alright, sure, I'll drop it. You're still having lunch with us, though. You _did_ remember to bring lunch with you today, right?”

Jon paused, words dying in his throat. He hadn't. He knew that, Tim knew that, Tim knew that he knew that. “... I didn't, no. So just let me get back to work.”

Martin let out a mildly distressed cry of “Jon!” from behind him, while Tim just shook his head, a fond smile on his face. “Well, it's a good thing we had the idea of going out today. Martin, put the tea on the reception desk. We'll lock the doors until we get back,” he said, clapping Jon on the shoulder as he started to steer him out.

Jon allowed Tim to manhandle him out to the marketplace and to a small restaurant tucked away in a side street. Sasha was waiting there already, looking a bit smug as Jon sank into the chair across from her.

“So, they managed to catch you?” she asked, stirring her tea without looking at it.

“Obviously. Was this your idea, then?” he asked, “And moreover, what even is this place? I've never heard of it before now.”

Tim dropped into the seat next to Sasha, throwing his arm over the back of her chair and getting an affectionate eye-roll. She pushed his arm off a few times before deciding to give up and let him be. “It's a new place! Started up by a friend of a friend who used to work in the royal guard. Heard it was pretty good, and I've been meaning to check it out. So, today happened to be a perfect opportunity!” he explained, waving over a waiter.

The waiter took the drink orders for the three who had just arrived, and handed each a menu. Jon felt his stomach flip when he saw the prices. Tim let out a low whistle, and Martin made a pained face as they made their own cursory glances. Sasha was the only one who didn't seem bothered or surprised at how expensive the place was.

“So... are we all paying for our own meals?” Jon asked, unable to wipe the grimace off his face as he set the menu down.

Tim shrugged. “Really, I... think we're just going to be here for tea for now. Find somewhere else to grab lunch. Somewhere that's _not_ going to cost a week's worth of salary.”

When the waiter returned with their drinks – coffee for Tim, and tea for both Martin and Jon – they informed him that they weren't going to be ordering anything else today, and got their cheque.

The group left not long after, all hurrying to finish their respective drinks and get out of somewhere that seemed far above their pay grade.

In the end, they found themselves sitting in the city park. They'd grabbed some street food and fresh fruits from a couple of stalls in the market, before finding somewhere to spend their break. It was nice, Jon thought, being able to relax for once. The spring breeze was cool while the sun brought a comfortable warmth in between the windy spells.

Jon found himself laying on his back under one of the trees, jacket folded beneath his head. Tim had taken his shoes off at some point, and was sitting somewhere to his right. Sasha laughed as he told some story about running around barefoot in mud puddles as a child, picking blades of grass and dropping them on Martin's head for seemingly no reason.

It was new to Jon, this kind of peace. The peace of comfort without prying into why it may be needed. Maybe someday he would tell them why he had such hard days sometimes. Maybe. He wasn't sure how he would go about it, especially since he hadn't even managed to tell Georgie about the nightmares.

At some point, he found that he'd started to doze off, his eyes slipping closed before he even noticed. A new voice pulled him from his reverie, the person asking if any of them knew the way to the palace library.

Jon's eyes cracked open to see a woman standing nearby, hands twisting nervously in front of her, and something distant in her eyes. He pushed himself up, stretching out. He winced as his back made a loud series of cracks and pops, and got up, dusting himself off as he did so.

“We happen to be the, ah, employees of the library,” he said, picking his coat up and batting off any loose debris off it. “We were just out on break, but I do figure that we should be getting back about now, so we can show you the way if you need?”

The others got up, dusting themselves off in turn and nodding in agreement at the young woman before them. Tim stepped forwards, offering a hand in greeting. “Tim Stoker, at your service. I work in the main stacks, and switch out with Martin there,” he gestured to Martin, who gave a shy wave of his own, “at the front desk. Anything you need, we're the two to ask. Sasha works mainly in categorizing and sorting, while Jon there is our boss and does most of the archival work.”

The woman shook his hand tentatively, stepping back as she let go. “I, um... I actually need to know about things in the Archives..?” she said. “I- Thank you for offering to show me the way to the library. And for working there I guess.”

“It's a pleasure Miss...?” Jon said, trying to get a name from her.

“Herne. Naomi Herne.”

“Well, Miss Herne, I can help you out with whatever it is you're looking for back at the Archives. If you'll follow me?”

The group made their way back to the library. Tim and Sasha tried to engage Miss Herne in light conversation for most of the way back, but were largely unsuccessful. She seemed incredibly uncomfortable with the attention, as far as Jon could tell. What evaded him, though, was whether it was because of who it was – two complete strangers – or if it was a more general social anxiety. He was leaning towards the latter, as he noticed that she kept glancing around her, as if looking for someone or something. Each time, she seemed relieved when she didn't see whatever it was.

Back at the library, Jon dismissed his assistants as he led Miss Herne to his office to speak with her in private. He pulled up a spare seat and offered it to her, taking his own seat behind his desk.

“Now, Miss Herne, how may I be of service? We don't often allow access to the Archives to the public. The library itself is mostly reserved for scholars and those of aristocracy or higher, with the Archives being far more difficult to gain access to,” he said, folding his hands on the desk in front of him.

“I don't... I don't have to be the one to go through it, if that helps,” she started. “I just... it's about my fiance. Evan Lukas was his name, and before you ask: _yes_ he was part of _that_ Lukas family,” she said.

“And what exactly about Mr. Lukas do you need from these Archives? I doubt we'll have anything on someone so... young, I suppose, in the Archives of all places.”

“Nothing on him. No I... I need to know more about the Lukas family. Something... happened. Something happened and-”

Jon reached out, placing one of his hands on hers. “Miss Herne, please take a deep breath. If you'd like, I could hear your story out, and see what I can find that may be similar, or lead you to something of a solution?”

Miss Herne took a deep breath and nodded. Jon pulled his hand away and set aside the records he had been going over before lunch. He pulled out a fresh stack of parchment, and readied his pen. He was lucky he'd had experience as a scribe back in Warcona, he thought, otherwise this would be rather difficult to take down.

“Whenever you're ready,” he said, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

Jon listened intently, and he wrote almost without thinking. He kept up, only one or two words behind her in his transcript of her recount. A strange buzz came over him as he wrote. It was nearly mechanical, the way his pen scratched across the paper, copying her words down with an ease that he didn't expect.

She told him of her life. Of how her father passed when she was still a young child, and how her quiet, introverted nature affected her. She told of how she met Evan when they both were trying to get the same job, and how she felt when he went in before her. How they dated for a while before moving in together in a flat in the capital of Avonrey, and how he helped her come out of her shell.

She also told him of his death, and how the loss affected her, leaving her feeling dreadfully alone once more.

It was after the death that Jon fell into what he felt was something akin to a trance. He listened and wrote down the recounting of the funeral back in Moorland House, in Tivermere. She explained to him how he'd always been distant from them, as he wanted to break away from the traditional religious upbringing and life that they fancied themselves to.

He listened as she told him about the dead look in the eyes of Evan's father, and how those same empty, soulless eyes echoed back at her from every member of the Lukas family in attendance of the funeral. How Evan seemed more like his family in death than in life, and how she left with little resistance when an older man told her that she should leave once the funeral had ended.

An itching in his mind started when she told him of the carriage crashing on the way back to the border of Avonrey. How she had stopped in the rain, and how the fog seemed to have wanted something from her. How it seemed malicious, and almost _hungry_.

The itching in his mind grew to a buzz – a heavy, almost tangible sensation – when Miss Herne explained how she had barely realized she had left the road behind, and wandered into a... strange place. The fog was thicker, with a few trees scattered about. Gravestones peeked out of the fog sometimes as well, and she had told him she had kept walking further and further along.

She told him of the chapel she had found in the centre of the gravestones, and how the doors were locked with a heavy iron chain. She had planned to take the rock she had grabbed to smash the lock, investigate further, she had claimed. The rock she had taken was placed on his desk at that point, but he hadn't bothered to look at it, or even do more than give it a cursory glance. Miss Herne had more to tell, still.

Jon could feel something wash over him when she described the way the fog coiled around her, dragged her to the grave that lay open before her, a fact she hadn't noticed before that moment. She told him how she'd managed to claw herself away from that open grave, and that the chapel's doors were open, then.

She explained the scene that she'd seen in the chapel, and how she knew she had to make a choice. How she ran and ran away from the chapel as the fog got thicker still. How the last thing she remembered before waking up in the hospital was hearing her departed fiance's voice telling her to turn left.

Whatever had gripped Jon during the time she spent telling him her tale fell away the moment she ended it. Washing in to replace it was a wave of exhaustion, heavier than it had been during the morning. He slumped in his chair, grip on his pen going lax as he lay it to the side.

“Well, Miss Herne,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I... I certainly believe that you had a run-in with the Lukas family. They're... well, they're in-tune enough with the power that watches over their country that, if I'm not mistaken, one of them is the King of Tivermere.”

Miss Herne paled at that, her hands tightening their grip on her skirts. “... I shouldn't go back, should I?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “I wouldn't suggest it. In any case, what all is it you'd like for me to search for in our Archives?”

“I... I don't know. History of the family? I-I just want to know why that happened to me, and I feel like learning more about Tivermere, the power that watches over it, and Evan's family may... help with that, I suppose.”

Jon hummed, writing down the things he's going to have to search for on a separate sheet of parchment, as well as approximate locations he figures they'll be. “Well, I do hope that it does. I can't say for sure if it will or not, as I'm not a therapist, but I'll do what I can to help ease your mind.”

“Thank you... I really do appreciate it. Please, let me know if you find anything. I... I'll be staying here in Avonrey for a while. I don't want to, not really, but I feel like being here will keep me safe for now.”

“It very likely will. I'll show you to the front desk? I believe our regular library may have something that will be able to give you some surface information on Tivermere, if you're interested,” Jon offered, standing and holding a hand out to help her up.

She nodded and took his hand, shakily getting to her feet. Jon helped her to the front, unsure she would be able to make it herself with how bad she was trembling.

Martin was at the front desk when they approached. He paused in his flipping through one of the catalogues when he heard them. Looking up, his eyes widened in shock and he hurried over.

“Is everything alright?” he asked, gaze flipping between Jon and Miss Herne rapidly. “I... Miss Herne can I get you anything? Water? Tea? A seat?”

Miss Herne stuttered out a response, though Jon didn't catch it as he slowly, carefully, backed away. Once a fair distance away, he turned around and hurried back to his office. He shut the door behind him, slumping against it. He felt as shaky as Miss Herne had looked, and he all but collapsed into his seat once more.

He looked over the notes – apparently an entire transcript – of what Miss Herne had told him. With a heavy sigh, he set it aside, going back to the project he'd been working on prior to lunch. He wanted to get it done before he began looking into Tivermere and the Lukas family.

Jon wasn't sure how long had passed by the time there was a soft knock at his door, but he was well aware that the lights in his office had begun to dim. He set aside his pen, and closed the book once more.

“Yes?”

The door cracked open, and Martin peeked in. “I brought tea... again,” he said. The library behind him was dark.

“What time is it?” Jon asked, gesturing for him to come in as he cleared his work off his desk.

Martin set the cup down on a clear spot that was far enough away from the rather plentiful stacks of papers for Jon's liking. “Not sure, actually. Miss Herne just left, though, and I'm pretty sure that Tim and Sasha both have been gone for nearly a half hour by now.”

“Christ...” Jon muttered, running a hand down his face. He leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “It's been a long day.”

“What even was that with Miss Herne earlier today? She looked like she'd seen a ghost.”

“It's because she may well have. Run in with the Lukases. I've- I took down a, uh, transcript of her recount,” Jon pulled the papers off the top of one of the stacks next to him. “It seems like it was a rather upsetting encounter.”

“Is that all she wanted to do? Add her account to the Archives?”

He shook his head. “She was interested in the history of the Lukas family, as well as Tivermere. Wanted to know what happened to her and why,” he explained. “In any case, she did say she wanted to know more about the power that watches over Tivermere, and our Archives are the best place to go for information like that.”

Martin was quiet for a moment. His eyebrows were furrowed, and his hands were tugging at the hem of his vest. “Is... Jon is that safe?” he asked, eventually.

It was Jon's turn to be silent. Really, because they were in the capital of Avonrey, it was one of the safest places to be while researching the other powers. However, there was the case of it being the Lukas' to consider. They'd been very generous in their funding of the upkeep and additions to the library and Archives, so upsetting them by digging up any unsavoury history would be a very bad idea.

“Probably not,” he admitted after a minute. “But I told her that I would do it, that I would take a look in the Archives for anything that may help her. Therefore, I'm going to do so. I keep my word.”

Martin stared at him for a minute, a strange mix of affection and exhaustion twisting his features, before shrugging. “I doubt I'll be able to change your mind on it, so... just let me know if there's anything you need follow up on, alright?”

Jon blinked, startled by the offer. “I- thank you?”

“Yeah, no problem. You should go home, Jon. Get some sleep if this is what you're going to be working on tomorrow,” Martin said, heading to the door. “I'll see you in the morning?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. I'll... head home soon. I just want to finish up the couple pages I have left to note down.”

With a nod, Martin left, the door closing softly behind him, and Jon pulled his work back out. There were more than a few pages to take notes down of, but he held back on finishing them all, as he presumed it was already much later than even his usual late nights were. He stayed at work until he'd finished the cup of tea he'd been brought, then tidied, and packed up.

As he locked up the library doors, he took a deep breath. There was a chill drafting through the halls, and he quietly regretted not bringing a heavier coat with him that morning.

The night air was bitter against his bare face. It nipped at his nose and cheeks, flushing them with the autumn chill that was making itself more known the last couple weeks. He pulled his hood up and hurried along, wanting to get home before he could think too long on the pressing darkness around him.

By the time he unlocked the door to his and Georgie's flat, he'd been nearly hyperventilating. The night had felt so heavy, the pitch dark almost tangible, reaching out to pull him into its depths.

He hung up his cloak on the rack, almost falling over when he pulled his boots off. The lights were still on in the kitchen, so he made his way to where he assumed Georgie was waiting for him.

He was right on the mark; Georgie stood in front of the sink, filling up the kettle. She barely glanced over her shoulder when he sank into his usual chair at the kitchen table, face in his hands as he slowed his breathing.

“Rough night?” she asked, the sound of the hob turning on accompanying the question.

Jon grumbled an affirmative, not wanting to try and speak properly yet.

“D'you need anything? I'm making tea either way,” she says. He feels her hand rest on his forearm and gathers the strength to lift his head.

Georgie looked at him with an affectionate and pitying smile, reaching out and gently ruffling his hair. “Tea first, then talk?”

He nodded, dropping his head back down onto his forearms. He listened to the soft din of her making the tea; the bubbling of the kettle, the clink of spoons against glass and china, the shuffling of Georgie's footsteps all lent themself well to Jon beginning to drift off by the time she set the cup down in front of him.

She tapped his shoulder, muttering for him to sit up and drink his tea.

He obliged, hands wrapping around the warm cup and sipping at it carefully. Several minutes passed in silence, both of them just drinking their tea, enjoying the familiar company the other offered.

“So, what has you looking like you were chased back home by a ghost with a knife?” Georgie asked, setting her half-empty cup down.

Jon sighed, the weight of it slumping his shoulders. “Long day, added up by the fact I was convinced I _was_ being chased by a ghost with a knife on my walk home,” he offered.

She didn't look convinced.

“I had a bad morning as well?”

Georgie just rolled her eyes and raised an eyebrow at him.

He tossed his hands up. “Someone came in asking about Tivermere and the Lukas family. I agreed to look into our records and offer up the information she was looking for, and that was on top of all the other work I had to do today. Is that what you wanted from me?”

“Yes, it is! Thank you for actually using your words,” she said, a pleased smile tugging at her lips as she picked her cup back up. The slight smile faded quickly, however, as she processed what he'd said. “The Lukas family? Why did she want information on them?”

“Her fiance was a member. Apparently he wasn't like the majority of them. He passed, and she had a rather... odd experience, and was hoping we would have insight on what happened to her,” he explained. “I'm not sure if we do or not, but I did promise that I would at least look into it.”

“And that's why you look so exhausted?”

He shook his head. “I'm not actually sure about that one. Probably just a mix of... a bad sleep last night, being late this morning, and staying late tonight. I have to hope that's all it is, I sure would be concerned if it were anything else.”

She nodded, looking off into the living room, thinking about what he'd said. They sat there for a while longer, until their cups were empty, and the china long-since gone cold. Georgie was the first to move, taking both of the cups and setting them next to the sink. She rested a hand on Jon's shoulder as she made her way past him.

“I'm heading to bed. You should probably consider doing the same, Jon,” she said, her footsteps fading down the hall shortly after.

It was another hour before Jon found it in him to move. He dragged himself up, stumbling, exhausted, down the hall to his own room, and barely taking the time to change into his sleep clothes before collapsing into bed.

And he dreamt.

* * *

Fog swirled, twisted, whirled across the ground. It was thick and cold, chilling his skin to the bone where it brushed against his pant legs. He tried to wave it away, brush it off him, disperse it at all, but it kept coming back, seemingly thicker each time. Giving up, he walked forwards, slowly, taking in the sights around him.

A sparse forest stretched out around him, endless and seemingly empty in all directions that he could see. Trees shuddered in the chilled breeze, and he tried to draw his coat around him further, an attempt at comfort he found futile. He kept walking.

The dry, brittle grass scratched at his ankles, his socks and shoes useless at keeping the discomfort away. He tried to follow what he thought may be a path, hoping it would help. It did for a short distance, but as the grass grew taller, more unkempt, the path faded, and he found himself wading through grass and weeds that nearly reached his waist. He kept walking.

The grass grew shorter once more. Shorter and shorter until it barely covered the dry, cracked earth it grew out of. He reached down, brushing against what seemed to be a long-dead flower that had tried to grow. It snapped under his fingers, crumbling to dust, and blew away in the wind.

The wind picked up, whistling, slicing bitter cold through the thin clothes he wore. The fog stayed, thick and heavy, an unrelenting presence even against the gusts that whipped at his face, made him shiver until he felt his legs would barely hold him. He kept walking.

He wasn't sure why he continued, why he walked through the barren, empty landscape that surrounded him. He just knew he had to. There was something he needed to do, even if he had no idea what it was, or where it was. And so he kept walking, through tall grasses, dead trees, a lifeless landscape that held no comfort. No sun shone down, no matter how long he walked. It was bitter cold, overcast, and reminiscent to an abandoned tundra.

It could have been minutes, hours, or even days he walked by the time he heard someone calling out in the distance. His head whipped around, trying to figure out where it had come from. He tried calling out, replying back to the voice, but found he hadn't his own to use. The voice called once more, pleading, faintly in the distance, and he made his way towards it.

Every few minutes there would be another shout, another cry of distress, and he would follow it, for it was what he needed to find. He had to find the source of that cry, that call, and see what its fate was. He needed to learn, to know. To see.

It didn't feel very long when he came across the person who had been crying out. She was young, her skirts torn at the hem, stumbling around in the dim grey light. Her once pristinely done hair was loose now, curls spilling over her shoulders, pins and ribbons that held it long gone. He stood just out of sight, as to not alarm her by suddenly appearing.

The landscape was slightly different than before, he noticed. The grass, slightly overgrown, was broken by name plaques in the dirt, names worn down and stone lifeless. A hollow facsimile of a graveyard, the dirt unbroken, no bodies below. The trees here had leaves, as well. They acted as a slight buffer to the gusts of wind that shook them, but as he looked, he could tell they as well were merely an act of life.

The young woman turned, her cry cut short when she caught sight of him. Now facing him, he could remember her. It was Miss Herne. She stared at him, eyes wide, panic growing as she backed away from him. He stepped forward, unable to do anything else, unable to not stay where he was, even... and she turned, and tried to run.

Her attempts didn't herald much success, as she tripped, foot catching on a raised gravestone and sending her tumbling to the ground. She pushed up onto her hands and knees, a choked sob tearing out of her as she asked, “What do you want from me?”

He couldn't answer. He didn't know. All he could do was watch as she got up once more, and continued to try and run. He could only follow, his motions barely his own as he walked easily over the cracked and broken earth.

Her running was cut short this time by her own hesitation. She froze dead in her tracks, fear pouring off of her in rivulets that he could almost see. It drove him forward, walking calmly, easily, over for a better vantage point of the scene he knew was about to unravel.

A dark chapel sat on a hill, the first true change in landscape he'd seen since he'd arrived. It's doors were padlocked shut, the chains and lock rusted firmly in place. He watched as she tried to back away, only for her back to hit a tree. She whipped around, only to see that her path back was blocked. Trees morphed slowly into a white cliff wall, the smell of seawater carried faintly on the wind. She turned back, tears silently spilling down her cheeks as she walked slowly towards the chapel.

She stumbled, collapsing onto the ground. She stayed there for a moment, sobs wracking her chest as she begged, pleaded, for help. He could not help. He could not even answer her to let her know that he couldn't. She cried, begging to know why this was happening to her, why did she get picked for this. He blinked, slowly, patiently, in response.

Still crying, sobbing, she stood once more. Her dress was torn, tattered, the cold biting at her bruised and scraped skin. She looked at him as she passed, her pleading eyes fixed firmly on his. He did not let recognition pass through him, did not let her know he was waiting for her to send herself to what he knew would be a doomed fate.

When she broke eye contact, she stopped, standing a mere few feet away from him, looking at a hole in the ground. There would be no body laid to rest there, not even hers. She was not given the blessing of being a life in this place. No, she was not liked by the god who cared for this land. It wanted to see her succumbing to the fate she escaped in waking, to watch her fear, and make it it's own.

She continued, and he followed. He remained behind her by a few feet the rest of the way to the chapel, stopping at the crest of the hill. Her hand reached out and touched the rusted lock, brushing over the chain. She knew, somehow, that the land she'd managed to escape to was on the other side of the door. She clawed at the lock, yanking at the chains that bound the doors firmly shut with stiff and frozen hands. It did not yield.

She kept trying for hours and hours, crying, screaming, begging for someone to hear her, to save her. She collapsed in a heap at the doors, shaking, sobbing, curling into herself in a waste of an attempt to find comfort. Eventually, she stood once more, hopeless, pleading eyes fixed on him. He did not blink. He could not, even if he wanted to.

There was no comfort he could give, nothing he could do to stop what she would do next. So he watched, a sick sense of anticipation growing in him as she walked to the edge of the grave she had passed. He watched as she climbed in slowly, sitting there, staring up at the expanse of dull sky that was unbroken by any light, any change in density or shade of grey.

And she cried. Silently, tears rolled down her face, soaking into the parched ground below her as they fell. Her eyes were blank as she stared up at him, blinking with an unasked question of _why_.

He did not answer her. He could not, even if he wanted to. For he knew the answer, but it was far too cruel to give. Not now, at least. So he watched, their gazes only broken by her slow, tired blinks every few seconds. And the next time he blinked, he was gone, and she was alone. Left in the barren tundra til she woke.

* * *

Jon sat up in bed with a start, gasping for air. He shook, barely able to pull his blankets closer around him with the tremors that wracked his body. He thought for a moment that he hadn't closed the window, but couldn't remember opening it the night before.

He turned to face the window, just to check for a breeze moving the curtains, and found them still, the window behind them apparently firmly latched as he'd assumed it would be.

As the minutes passed and his breath steadied, he noticed something.

The dream wasn't fading this time.

He could remember every single detail that he'd seen. The wind against his face, the grass against his ankles, the lifelessness and certainty of pure solitude... all of it was clear in his mind as if he were watching a movie as he recalled it. The look of the sky, the trees... of Miss Herne's pleading, hopeless face. The terror and dread that had rolled off of her and how he had... _enjoyed_ it.

A wave of nausea washed over him at the thought, and he promptly launched himself out of bed, down the hall, and to the washroom where he spent several long minutes throwing up. When all that was coming back was bile, he wiped his mouth and slumped, shaking, against the wall opposite the toilet. He still felt sick, his stomach churning every time he thought about the anticipation and twisted pleasure he had felt at watching Naomi Herne lose hope of being saved, of succumbing to the isolation and sorrow that washed over her.

He sat there for quite a long time, eyes closed, trying to will the images and sensations that played back in his mind and on his skin away. It didn't work.

The sound of Georgie's door opening finally got him to crack his eyes open once more. He glanced up to see her standing in the doorway, looking very awake compared to what she normally would after just waking up.

“Morning,” he croaked out. His head pounded, vision swimming when he tried to move.

Georgie dropped down to kneel next to him. She pressed her wrist against his forehead, checking his temperature. “You're not going in to work today,” she said. It wasn't a question, nor was it a suggestion.

He sighed.

“No, Jon you- Jon you've got a fever, and it looks like you've been throwing up for the last several hours. You're not going in to work today. Don't you sigh at me for not letting you go in when you look like you've just caught the flu,” she snapped. “You're not putting yourself at risk like that. Nor your colleagues if it _is_ the flu.”

“I... alright. Can you help me up? I should... probably get some water before I do much else. Brush my teeth as well,” he mumbled, taking the hand Georgie held out to help himself to his feet.

She hovered around him most of the morning, once he'd washed up. He had decided a shower was in order, as Georgie commented briefly on how he looked damp with sweat as she put on the kettle and prepared some coffee for herself. She'd gotten him to try and eat some toast with a little bit of butter, but he couldn't bring himself to eat more than a couple of bites. Eventually, she led him back to his room, and told him to get some more rest. She passed him a sleep mask, to which he gave her a confused stare at.

“It's a spare. It's so the sun doesn't bother you while you're trying to rest, alright? You need to rest today, Jon. I'll be just downstairs in the shop if you need anything. The Admiral is around, too, if you get lonely,” she explained, backing out of the room. “Take care of yourself today, alright? I'll make a trip to the library to let your coworkers know you're not going to be in; around when you ran out of here yesterday?”

“Yes, thank you Georgie. Really it... means a lot, that you care,” he said, climbing back into bed.

“Yeah, well, we all need someone who does, right? It's what makes us human, those connections. Being part of something... caring. So just rest up, alright? I'll pick up some broth in the market if I can find some to make soup tonight,” she said, closing the door until there was just a crack of hall light coming through.

It was easier than he expected to drift off once more. It was fitful at first, but no new nightmares came to him. Eventually, the Admiral nosed his way into Jon's room with a soft chirp, and found his way to his chest.

With a cat laying on him, purring and kneading lightly at his sternum, he fell asleep once more. No nightmares to plague him with the warm weight of love and care sitting comfortably on his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! The first chapter that starts us on the main path, introduces other main characters, and gives us a statement even! If you liked reading, comments are deeply appreciated! In the case anyone wants to chat about this fic, or even just tma in general, you can find me @thearch1ve on tumblr! Again, biggest thanks to my beta-reader @sol1loqu1st on tumblr for editing this! I hope y'all enjoyed this chapter!


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No additional content warnings for this chapter other than Elias being creepy as per usual.

It was three days before Jon was able to return to work. Georgie fussed about every time he tried to get up in the mornings and get dressed, shooing him back to his room after he managed to choke down something to eat. He mostly fended for himself; making tea or warming up leftover soup on the stove, reading to pass the time, or just cuddling with the Admiral.

By the fourth day, he was starting to go stir-crazy.

He got up, and waited a few minutes, sitting on the edge of his bed. There was no wave of nausea that overtook him, no dizzy spell or vertigo that threatened to tip him over if he dared to stand. So he did, and he got dressed as usual, grabbed his bag, and went to the kitchen.

Georgie was sitting at the table, and gave him a suspicious look as he walked in. “You're planning on going in?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

“Yes, Georgie, I am. I'm feeling fine today, honestly. No dizziness, no nausea, none of it. I feel perfectly fit to go back to work,” he sighed, setting his bag next to his seat and going to make himself a cup of tea. “I don't think I'd last another day in here anyways, even if I had to. I'm getting cabin fever, being cooped up this long...”

“Cabin fever, _really_ Jon? It's only been three days, there's no way you could... look, just promise me if you start to feel ill at all, you'll sign out for the day and get some more rest here,” she sighed. The two of them knew each other well enough by now to know when something was a lost cause. Unfortunately for Georgie, Jon's work ethic was beyond saving.

“Of course. I'll also be sure not to stay late, if that helps ease your mind at all, as well,” he offered, knowing how frustrated she was at him.

“It does. Now eat up, I'm not letting you go in there on an empty stomach after three days of being sick in bed.”

By the time he was heading out the door, he felt a sort of mental itch. He knew that he wasn't late, not by any means. It was just that he had left a bit later than he normally would have, and the half hour or so was... bothering him. He always tried to be early when it came to opening the library, and every minute counted to him.

The library was locked up, firm as ever, when he got there. He went about lighting all the lamps, getting the chandelier lit through the complex pulley system he'd figured out about two months in, and dusting off the front desk. Once the main area was presentable, he scurried back to his office to begin working.

The office was as messy as he'd left it. Stacks of papers littered about, files haphazardly stuck between books, and his pen and ink sitting dead centre of the desk. Taking his coat off, he began to tidy up and get started on making his workspace functional. He set the pen and ink aside, and did his best to pick out a few books and files he planned on doing notations for before lunch. He set aside some files he hadn't remembered taking out, and got started.

His peaceful work lasted an hour at most before there was the sound of others entering the library from beyond his office door. Knowing what was coming, he finished the note he was working on, wiped his pen off, and set it all aside.

As expected, there wasn't even a courtesy knock before Tim was throwing his door open, a stunned and concerned Martin in tow.

“You're back! Where the hell have you been?” Tim asked, sounding thrilled while he looked shocked and terrified.

“I've been home sick for a few days. Caught a rather nasty bug is all. I'm doing just fine now,” Jon muttered.

“Okay, okay, cool. What happened with Miss Herne before you left?” Tim pestered, walking in and leaning over Jon's desk.

“I just told her I'd be looking into the Archives for files that could help her out. Don't you have work to be doing?”

“Uh-huh, sure, I'll get to it when I'm satisfied with the answers I get from you,” he said. “Why did she look that terrified when she left?”

Jon sighed, running an ink-stained hand down his face. “She was recounting something to me that would help me find the information she wanted. I will not be divulging the specifics, but rest assured she told me entirely of her own accord.”

Tim stared at him for a long moment, eyes scanning his face with a sort of wary concern. “... Alright!” he said, standing up straight once more and clapping. His face snapped back into its usual cheerful grin as he did so. “You need anything today, Boss? You should take it easy your first day back!”

“I'm fine, Tim, thank you. Please just do your job as usual, and it'll be enough for me,” Jon said, pulling his work back in front of him. “I'll be in the Archives after lunch, just as a heads up if anyone needs anything from me.”

“You got it! Should we let you know when it's lunch so you don't work past it?”

Jon opened his mouth to shoot down the offer, but paused. It would be smarter for someone else to keep an eye on the time for him so he had time to actually look into the files he wanted to for Miss Herne. “I would appreciate it, yes. Thank you, Tim,” he said, starting to read the old tome once more.

Tim let out a pleased little huff as he ushered Martin out of Jon's office, and Jon couldn't help but roll his eyes at the little victory he'd given Tim.

As he worked, he let his mind go blank of everything that had been bothering him the last few days. No thoughts of strange dreams, no guilt wracking him to the point of nausea... just a familiar routine, surrounded by familiar scents.

Martin didn't come by to bring him tea, which he found he appreciated at the moment. The tea was often reassuring, something he enjoyed on hard days, but today? Today he was content with keeping liquids away from his desk and the files there. He didn't want to have to rewrite any of the transcripts and recounts that piled around him if something _did_ happen.

He'd just finished up taking notes down for the latest chapter in the book he was looking over when there was a soft knock at the door to his office. He quickly finished up the note as he called for whoever it was to come in.

Sasha's face greeted him when he looked up from setting everything aside. She was holding a cup of tea in her hands and raised an eyebrow at him as she watched him stand. “You're back already?” she asked, taking a long sip from the cup.

“I just had a rather nasty cold is all, Sasha. Nothing to worry about.”

“That's not what it sounded like when Georgie came by to tell us you wouldn't be in the first day. She said you looked like you'd been up all night vomiting, half passed out on the bathroom floor.”

Jon found himself sighing, sitting back down in his chair and gesturing for her to close the door. She obliged, leaning against the wall, still sipping at her tea as she watched him.

“Did she tell the others that?” he asked.

“Nope. I was the one opening while you were home sick, and the first day I was there early because I wanted to look something up before we had anything to actually do. So, unfortunately for me, I got the details,” she explained. “I didn't think you'd want the others to know the exacts of the situation, so I just told them you were home sick and I'd open until you got back.”

He blinked at her, dumbfounded. “I- well. Thank you, Sasha. I appreciate it, really,” he said, looking down at his hands in his lap. “What she told you was true, yes. It... I'm fine now. It was an unpleasant few days, rough sleep on top of it all, but I'm quite fit to work once more.”

She hummed noncommittally, staring at him still. “Just... don't be afraid to let us know if you need anything, alright? We're here to help, not just as coworkers, Jon. We're here as friends, too.”

Jon was silent, then, as he processed her words. He looked away, down at his desk, with a sigh. “Thank you, Sasha. Really, I... I do appreciate it. There are things that I would like to tell you three in due time, but... I can't right now. It's too fresh in my mind, still.”

“Whenever you're ready, just let us know. Right now, I think grabbing lunch would be a wise idea, yeah? It's almost when you take your lunch break, and I was the one sent in to let you know,” she laughed as he jolted, head whipping to look at the clock on his wall.

“It's already been four hours?”

She nodded. “Guess you're glad to be back, if time's flying that fast for you.”

Jon didn't reply to that, just huffing out a laugh through his nose and pushing himself to his feet. Sasha opened the door, gesturing for him to take the lead. He did so, locking the door behind her once they were both out.

They met up with Tim and Martin at the front desk, waiting for the last of the patrons to trickle out so they could lock up. Tim left to do a quick sweep of the library to double check that there was no one left, coming back with a spring in his step.

“No one left, so we can head out! I was thinking a cafe for lunch today-” he was cut off by the distinctive echoing bang of a large book hitting the floor.

Everyone turned to look to where the sound seemed to have come from, before their heads swivelled around to Jon.

He froze, eyes flicking between the others. “Why are you all looking at _me_ now?”

“You're the head librarian here. You get to go look for what caused the spooky ghost book falling,” Tim said, patting Jon on the shoulder amicably.

“I also just got back from three days of sick leave, and I don't think Elias covers injuries done by incorporeal beings,” he argued.

Sasha put her hand on Jon's other shoulder with a grin. “Let's go find a book-dropping ghost!” she said, pulling him along with her.

Jon cast a pleading glance back at Martin, who shrugged, clearly trying not to laugh at the whole situation. He stopped resisting Sasha's tugging, following a couple steps behind her as they wandered the aisles, looking for the book.

They didn't find it in the end. There was nothing on the floor of any of the aisles, and nothing under the shelves either. Tim had hauled them to one of his favourite cafes, claiming boldly that he would pay for lunch for the lot of them. Jon kept it light, not wanting to push his luck still when it came to the nausea he'd had the last few days.

Back at the library, Jon ducked away to the Archives, reminding them that if he was needed, that's where he would be found.

No one liked going into the Archives.

Part of it was because of the amount of equipment that they needed to use to handle certain documents; the gloves provided being itchy and uncomfortable, and the dust masks barely doing their jobs. The other part was the simple fact that it felt deeply, deeply wrong. There was something more to the Archives, they all could tell, and not one of them liked the feeling they got while in there.

Jon couldn't find it in him to be bothered by the prickling sensation on the back of his neck, however, not when he had something to do. He pulled the awful gloves on after braiding back his hair, and calmly tied his mask behind his head. He was going to talk to Elias someday soon about getting better masks for this, he thought.

It was a long, tiring process, looking for documents that could help him figure out more about Miss Herne's situation. Gertrude, the previous head, seemed to have completely forgotten about the Archives, tossing things in at random and – as far as Jon could tell – even going so far as to disorganize older files.

By the time he walked out with four files tucked into a small, dark bag, it was near closing time. Jon sighed, looking at his bag of files, then back at the Archives, then towards his office. He wandered back into the Archives, pulling out a new box and setting the files he'd pulled out into it. Carefully, he wrote out a label and taped it to the top before tucking the box in an open shelf near the entrance.

He wasn't very happy having to leave this until the next day, but it was better than dealing with Georgie's wrath if he were to stay late like usual.

Jon collected his things from his office, shrugging his coat on, and tucking his bag under his arm as he went to lock up once again.

“Uh, Jon? Are you heading home already?” Martin's voice came from behind him, cautious in tone.

“Yes, Martin, I am. Georgie would probably try to kill me if I stayed late after telling her that I'd leave at close,” Jon laughed a bit, trying not to raise any more concern over his state. “Honestly, I'd rather keep working, since I only just managed to track down a few of the files I need for Miss Herne's situation.”

“Oh! Um, I could check for a few more, maybe? I-I know the Archives are really _not_ a fun place, but if it'll help at all...?” Martin offered, startling Jon.

He blinked up at him, unsure about letting others join him on the case. He didn't want anyone getting deeper into whatever was going on with Tivermere than absolutely necessary, especially since he had heard stories about the Lukas family.

None of this seemed to matter to his mouth, however, as he stumbled out, “I... Sure, yes, I'd appreciate the extra pair of eyes to go through the Archives tomorrow in more detail. I'll let you know more about what to look for then?”

Martin beamed at him, then, and it almost hurt to look at. “Great! Uh, I'll see you tomorrow then? Should I be here early or is Miss Herne's case for after lunch exclusively?”

“I'm planning on keeping anything to do with her situation in the afternoons, yes. Mornings I'd _much_ prefer to keep to my office than try and dig through the mess of the Archives.”

Martin nodded, waved, and headed off, leaving Jon to lock up the library proper. Jon for his part, shook his head, going about his closing routine as usual. “What a strange man,” he muttered as he slid the key from the lock, heading home for the evening.

Georgie was waiting for him when he walked into the flat. She raised an eyebrow and glanced at the clock in the corner. “You actually did it. I'm impressed.”

He rolled his eyes, hanging his coat up on the rack. “Yes, Georgie, I did. I'm fully capable of having a – a healthy work schedule. It just is easier to lose myself in it, is all.”

She hummed at him, turning and heading into the kitchen. “I made pot pie for dinner, I hope that's alright? I wasn't sure if you'd be able to handle it, so I was a bit nervous, but I ended up going with it anyways. If you can't eat it, we can freeze the leftovers until you're feeling better, and go with the last of the soup.”

As it turned out, he could eat it. Georgie had gone with lamb and a light cream-based sauce for the fillings, and neither did anything to bring the nausea from the last few days back. It was nice to have the chance to sit down and share a meal without any fussing, again. Neither spoke over dinner, and Jon very gladly took the chance to make himself busy and clean up after them.

The rest of the evening went by in a bit of a blur. One minute Jon was tidying dishes up, and the next he was in his nightclothes, getting ready for bed. He wasn't exactly sure what he'd done in the time between, activities and conversations blurred together. It was far harder than he wanted it to be to not mind it, and his sleep was fitful.

The next morning, he was exhausted. As he dragged himself up out of bed, he tried to recall what he'd dreamt about, grateful that for the first time in a while, he couldn't.

Georgie didn't pester him that morning, aside from asking him if he would be leaving work at a normal hour again. He tried to avoid answering, getting a glare as he talked around it. He eventually agreed that, yes, he would leave at a normal hour. She didn't hold him back when he left at his usual ridiculously early hour to open, though, which he counted as a blessing.

Tucked into his office, he settled in, and got started on work.

After an hour or two, a knock pulled him from his focus. “It's open,” he called out, glancing up briefly as the door opened.

Martin walked in, holding tea as usual. “Back on your usual schedule, then?” he asked, setting the saucer down on the clear corner of Jon's desk.

“Not really. Georgie let me come in at my usual time, but still expects me to come back at the scheduled close time for the library,” he grumbled, jotting a note down on the parchment in front of him.

“I'll keep my thoughts on that to myself,” Martin muttered, not without a hint of... was that fondness in his voice? At a normal volume, he continued, “Do you still want any help with looking for files that connect to Miss Herne's situation after lunch?”

Looking up properly, Jon took a moment to process what Martin had asked. “Oh, uh... yes, I believe it would go faster that way. Thank you, Martin.”

Turning his attention back to the files at hand, he heard a soft huff from Martin before the door clicked shut behind him. He was able to keep his focus on the files for about five minutes before his attention drifted to the tea nearby.

Steam rose from the cup, steadily curling over and into itself a few inches above it. He watched it for a moment, taking it just for himself. Everything had started to go awry from the moment he had agreed to speak with Naomi Herne, but there were still things that stayed the same. The same cup and saucer, every day, at the same time. The same faces that smiled back at him and teased him over lunch, every day.

He wasn't sure what all he could be sure would keep mostly the same, but he figured that wasn't all bad, so long as he could keep the small things.

The tea tasted the same as always.

By the time lunch rolled around, he felt far more like himself than he had in days. Sasha poked her head into his office to call him out, same time as usual, and he'd obliged, following the group to the canteen.

After they'd all finished eating, Martin followed Jon to the Archives.

“So, what all are we looking for in here? There's... kind of a lot to sort through, isn't there?” Martin asked, pulling on the gloves and securing his mask over his face.

Jon nodded. “We're looking for any information on the Lukas family we can find. Specifically-” he paused, realization settling in. “I didn't actually show you the transcript of Miss Herne's account, did I? I meant to, but I believe that I... forgot.”

Martin blinked at him for a moment before cracking up. He shook his head lightly, laughing every time he tried to look at Jon's face. “You certainly did forget. Lukas family, though, I can do. Anything else?”

Face burning, Jon pulled his own gloves on, grateful that he'd already put his mask on. “Fog, graveyards and...” He thought for a moment. “Isolation,” he decided.

“So anything that mentions or is about the Lukas family, fog, graveyards, or isolation?”

“Exactly. The more of those things are in a particular file, the more likely it is to be relevant. I'd say this shouldn't take long to find everything that's applicable but...” Jon gestured to the stacks as they walked into the Archive.

Martin hummed as he set off to pick a box to look through. “Have you ever considered organizing this place?” he asked as he pulled one down from an upper shelf.

“Not really,” Jon admitted, going back to the box he'd started on the previous day. “I never really saw a point in it. It... well, I won't say none of it would be applicable to research that visitors do, but very little of it is. Most seem to be stories much like Miss Herne's, though some are more... verifiable than others, for lack of better terms.”

After that, the pair spent most of their time in silence, rifling through the pages that filled the boxes. The relevant cases and files grew, though just barely, and Jon was beginning to feel _very_ tempted to start a section of this that simply contained files that were discredited. Some of the things that he scanned over he didn't even think to look twice at. They didn't draw him in, didn't read with the same amount of conviction as others, even though they all were just... bizarre encounters with otherworldly forces.

He began setting those aside in a spare box, slapping a label on it that he could fill out later. Martin watched, curiously, as he put files into said box seemingly at random. Had he asked Jon what he was doing, he wasn't actually sure he'd have been able to answer.

A few hours and boxes later, Jon had managed to sort out several new files that could help with Miss Herne's case, and make more of a mess of the Archives in his attempts to sort it out.

“So much for not trying to sort the Archives, I guess?” Martin laughed as they pulled their gloves and masks off at the end of the day.

“I suppose. It... may help in the future to at least attempt sorting things out.”

“What was with that... well, with _those_ boxes. The ones you set aside and tossed things into without much rhyme or reason?”

Well, that certainly was a question.

Jon ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up with more dust as he sighed. “I don't know for sure,” he lied, “But they all... well, they don't feel like they'll be much use. At all. Far too... nonsensical in the things they document.”

Martin hummed, pursing his lips in thought. “I honestly feel like the reverse is more accurate?” he said. “I looked at one of the ones you put in there and while, yeah, the actual content is... mostly nonsense, the way it was told was more coherent.”

“That... yes, exactly. They feel... more like a narrative story than any proper recount of an experience.”

“And that makes them... discredited, as your label so helpfully provided?”

Jon was silent, pointedly looking away. “I... yes. It does. They don't have the same substance that the others have.” He very firmly said this, even though he wouldn't meet Martin's eyes.

Martin was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. You... well you _sound_ like you're pretty sure about what you're talking about, even if you couldn't _look_ less confident,” he laughed. “So, do you want reorganizing the Archives to be an official project?”

“I'll think about it. I'll let everyone know that it's a potential project tomorrow, and on Monday I'll give the final verdict on it,” Jon said, pulling on his overcoat and wrapping his scarf around his neck.

Martin nodded, waving his goodbye as Jon went about closing up the Library.

Georgie wasn't exactly pleased when he told her about the potential new undertaking, though she did agree to help out with a pros and cons list over the weekend. His coworkers were... well, Jon was fairly sure it was just the concept of the Archives they weren't a fan of. He also took the time to ask for his assistants' help with looking for statements that fit the parameters for the Naomi Herne case.

By the weekend, Jon was worrying about the potential new project to such an extent that he was even aware of how excessive it was. Which was to say, when Georgie sat him down Saturday afternoon with a small chalkboard on the table, he wasn't surprised in the least.

“Pros and cons list, like I said we'd do. You're getting to be a bit much, quite frankly, and if I have to hear you tapping at the kitchen counter any longer, I think I'm going to either break your fingers, or tear my ears off,” she said, scribbling the words _Pros and Cons of Archiving_ across the top, with a line down the middle of the board. “Let's start off with the cons, since I know how you are.”

“Cons? The gear is out of date, irritating to put on constantly, and is highly uncomfortable. Not only that, but there's... there's something _wrong_ with the Archives themselves. Aside from the hellish disorganization, that is,” he said, ticking each off on his fingers as he said them.

“So... bad gear, bad vibes, time consuming for cons?”

Jon blinked at her, nodding slowly. “It also is likely to set off any allergies any of us have, since I don't know when it was last cleaned. I mean, think I saw mouse shit, so that... doesn't give me much hope for the state of things. I don't even know what can be salvaged if any of it is damaged.”

“Unpredictable contents, allergen hot spot as well?”

Jon opened his mouth to agree, but paused, closing it, hesitating before he blurted out, “How do you do that?”

Georgie barely glanced up from the chalkboard. “Do what?”

“Stay so... focused. You barely even blinked when I said that there's something _wrong_ with the Archives.”

She shrugged. “What can I say? I'm used to it by now. Used to you and your idiosyncrasies, used to spooky bullshit happening all the time, used to things being _wrong_ in this damned country.”

“...Right. I- Georgie I'm...”

“Don't. I know you're about to apologize for something, and I really don't wanna hear it, Jon. Whatever it is, I don't care. I just want you to _not_ get yourself killed? Especially after... well, after how long it took you to get out of Warcona. So let's just... figure out the pros of this Archive project, alright?” she said, finally looking at him fully. Her eyebrows creased slightly, lips pursed and tilted into a slight frown, and she stared him directly in the eye.

Jon shifted in his seat slightly, looking away, breaking the rather uncomfortable eye contact. He nodded, hands fidgeting in his lap. “Right, of course,” he said.

“So, what are the pros? The good things that come from sorting out this supposed mess of an Archive?”

“... Future cases like Miss Herne's will be easier researched. Decreasing clutter, false statements and documents, and clearing out whatever literal garbage is in there will be an overall benefit for the long-run. It will also give us a project we can do as a team, something that can be done during down time, and will keep us busy. On top of all of that, decreasing the mess in there will likely make it... at least slightly more welcoming. The gloom and dread that surrounds the phrase 'I need to grab something in the Archives' will likely mostly vanish,” he paused, trying to think of anything else, “and... it will stop me from having that... strange mental itch, I think.”

Georgie jotted down all of the points he said dutifully, punctuating the last with a flourish. Content with her master piece, she turned the board around and set it up so he could take a proper look at it.

She tapped the chalk at the cons list. “So, from what I can tell, most of these are more short term, or surround the already existing issue of the clutter and mess your Archives are in,” her attention turned to the pros list, and she tapped it as well as she turned to look at Jon. “This side, though, seems to be all benefits for the long run. An unpleasant task to start, but _highly_ beneficial once you get even a little bit of sense made.”

“That... sounds right, yes. It really is just _starting_ it that's got me so worked up. There's... there's something wrong with it. More so than the rest of the palace, or even the country as far as feeling goes.”

Georgie set the chalkboard on the table, quirking an eyebrow at him. “What do you mean?”

Jon folded himself into his chair, tucking his feet beneath him as he leaned back in the soft leather. “The watched feeling. You've felt it since you got here, haven't you?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Nope,” she popped the P, but paused for a moment. Sheepishly she continued. “Well... okay, I didn't. For a very, very long time, I didn't feel it.”

“What changed?” Jon asked, leaning towards her, attention fixed very firmly on her.

It was a long, tense moment that passed between them, then. Georgie's eyes were closed, and Jon recognized the expression on her face as one that she'd gotten when they were younger whenever she was refraining from smacking him. “It was you,” she admitted through grit teeth. “It was you, Jon. You showed up, and that feeling came on with your arrival.”

Jon, for his part, didn't immediately start trying to defend himself. Instead, he got very, very still, and very, very quiet. He leaned back in his chair once more, eyes fixed on some middle ground, unfocused. “I see,” he breathed, words barely audible, but the fear in them almost tangible.

“I don't know why,” Georgie admitted, looking away from him, almost seeming ashamed. “but something here _really_ likes you. And I don't know if that's a good thing or not.”

Shaking his head, Jon's eyes flicked over to Georgie, though they still had that distant terror in them. “I don't either. But I don't think I have much of a choice in what it does with me,” he laughed, shakily. His voice cracked and broke at the end, and his hand flew up to cover his mouth as he started shaking with hysterical, silent laughter.

Without a word, Georgie got up and moved to crouch in front of him. She took his hands in hers, and quietly hummed a familiar tune as she rubbed her thumbs over the backs of his hands. They sat there for a few minutes, Georgie continuing to hum various tunes as Jon did his best to focus on the sound instead of his own boiling panic.

It was a little while later when he finally choked out a single sentence, his voice soft and hoarse with panic and fear. “I thought I could finally stop having these... _things_ haunt me.”

“I hoped so, too. Unfortunately, Jon, I don't think we get a choice in it. We're all caught in this web that they've weaved, like it or not. Just... well, I really don't know if we should be glad they've taken a liking to us rather than a loathing,” Georgie said, pushing herself to her feet with a soft huff. “I'm going to make some tea. You want some?”

Jon nodded. “Thank you, Georgie. I... thanks.”

She laughed, shaking her head as she looked down at him in the chair. “It's just tea, Jon. No need to thank me so sincerely.”

“No, I mean... well, yes partly for the tea, but for all of this. You easily could have turned me away when I'd come here, sent me out once I got a job at the palace of all damn places, but you didn't. Hell, you helped me get on my feet here in more ways than one. I don't know what I'd have done without you. So: thank you, for everything so far,” he said, sniffling slightly. “I really hope you don't have to get involved in whatever it is that's going on. I've already had one of them mark me, or at least try to, and if any more come calling...”

He trailed off, not actually wanting to think about what would happen if more of the awful powers that be wanted a piece of him.

She scoffed. “You think I haven't been marked as well?” She paused. “Actually, no, we're not going to get into that today. Not now. I'll tell you whenever I think you're not going to have a breakdown over hearing it.”

Jon opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it at the last minute. He shook his head, knowing that she would eventually tell him, even if waiting felt like it was going to kill him.

The tea was a welcome distraction.

* * *

Even with the tension of the week before hanging over them, the rest of the team seemed to take the news of the latest project well. Jon gave them a crash course on the new organization system their first morning back, and they'd all caught on fairly quickly. Sasha even managed to figure out Jon's way of classifying discredited documents, asking him about it only after she'd noticed they were the only two doing it.

By the time lunch rolled around, all four of them were covered in dust and in desperate need for some fresh air. Jon wanted to tuck into the documents they'd found so far that related to Naomi Herne's case, but the others weren't having it. Much to his begrudging compliance, he allowed himself to be tugged down to the kitchens for sandwiches and tea, then out to the gardens.

He was mildly less begrudging in his accompanying the others once they were out in the gardens. He'd always liked them, and found himself out there more often than not when he was having a particularly rough day. It was such a stark difference to the palace he'd grown used to back in Warcona, and any reminders that he was no longer tied to the Weaver-Queen was welcome.

They wandered about for a few minutes, chatting aimlessly as they searched for one of the stone tables that littered the garden, hoping that at least one would be free on as nice a day as it was. Jon wasn't really listening, and when they finally found one, he was far more interested in finishing his food than with keeping up with any conversation around him.

The sharp clack of heels against cobblestone snapped him out of his own thoughts, and he snapped his head around to find the source of the sound. He felt the blood in his veins run cold as he noticed Elias walking towards them with a purpose. The others followed Jon's gaze and they all scrambled to their feet as he reached them.

“No need for that,” he said, gesturing for them to sit back down. “I just wanted to ask if you had a moment, Jon. There's something that I'd like to discuss with you, but I do understand if you'd rather I wait until after you're done with lunch.”

Jon glanced at the others, trying to gauge their thoughts on this. Martin gave him a nervous smile, while Sasha kept her face impassive. Tim just mouthed, “Good luck,” at him.

With a sigh, Jon nodded and went around his bench. “Now is just fine,” he said, gesturing for Elias to lead the way.

Jon followed as Elias led him back towards the entrance to the garden, anxiety building slowly but steadily.

“So, I've heard that you have a new project you've taken on in the library,” Elias said, stopping short of the entrance and turning to face Jon, his expression unreadable.

“Oh! Um, yes, I have,” Jon jolted when Elias had turned, but his nerves eased when he realized that this was about work.

“What all is this going to entail?”

“It's going to be reorganizing the Archives in the library. It's a mess in there, any useful files are practically impossible to locate, and if any documents are damaged, I want to be able to restore or replace them to the best of my abilities,” he explained. “Occasionally people will ask if there's anything in there that we can let them see, and we've always had to turn them away before now.”

Elias tilted his head in thought, an eyebrow raised and a curious glint in his eyes. “What caused this sudden desire to fix it up, if I may ask?”

Jon hesitated. He wasn't sure if telling Elias about Miss Herne was a good idea or not, but not only was he Jon's boss... he was also the stand-in Seer-King until a new Truthseer was found. Made? Jon still wasn't entirely sure about the logistics of that one. Despite his reservations, Elias' steady, curious gaze wore him down.

“A young woman came by a little while ago, um... the day before I had to take a few days off of work, actually. She asked... she wanted to add an account of her experiences to our library, but with the content, I wasn't sure if adding it was a good idea or not,” he said, looking anywhere but at Elias. “She asked as well, if we could look through the Archives for anything that may be similar to what she had gone through, any information that could explain her situation. She looked over the main library with help from Martin, I believe, but hasn't returned to continue her search.”

“I see. May I ask what it was she was looking for, specifically?” Elias' eyes had gone dark, and Jon felt a strange tingling in his throat.

“... Accounts of the Lukas family, their history, and the general history of Tivermere. Her fiance was a Lukas, and she had a run in with... something? At his funeral, when she met the rest of the family,” Jon didn't like the feeling he got, then. He hadn't wanted to explain any of that to Elias, so why had he?

A feeling of wrongness blanketed him as he finally looked back to Elias, and the sensation of thousands of eyes turning towards him came as he did so as well.

Elias, for his part, didn't show that he felt anything was wrong. A dark, wary look shone in his eyes, though, and when he spoke it was careful, and deliberate.

“I strongly suggest that you leave the Lukas family alone. Tivermere and the Lukas family may be allies of ours, here in Avonrey, but anything that may draw attention to them is...” he said, choosing his words carefully, “it is incredibly dangerous, Jon. They do not like people knowing much about them, especially the current Lonely-King. Be careful in what you research. I advise you stop looking into them entirely, quite honestly.”

Jon nodded, glancing back briefly to ask if he was free to leave and finish his lunch. Elias didn't say anything; he simply nodded back, and turned away, leaving Jon standing there.

Back at the table, the mood was no better.

“Christ, Jon, what the hell did he want to talk to you about? You look like you've seen... well, like you've seen a ghost,” Tim asked as Jon wandered back to them.

He shook his head, picking up the half of his sandwich he hadn't gotten a chance to eat before Elias arrived. No one spoke as he slowly, carefully, made himself finish it. He didn't want to hear it from Georgie if she found out he hadn't finished lunch, even if his reason would have been fully understandable.

“He asked about the new project,” he eventually said, hands folded on the table in front of them, staring directly at them. “and about what made me want to do it.”

“That doesn't explain why you look like you just had your life threatened, Jon,” Sasha said, leaning towards him over the table.

He shook his head. “I'll explain more in my office. I don't... I feel like talking about it here would be a _very_ bad idea.”

They didn't press him further. The group finished their lunches in a tense silence, everyone casting uneasy glances at Jon the entire time. He couldn't find it in him to care, not when the feeling of being watched finally vanished as he stepped into his office.

He took a deep, steadying breath, trying to gain a bit of control back over his emotional state. The others looked at him nervously, expectantly, as he slumped in his chair, and explained what had happened during the brief interaction with Elias. Their faces grew concerned at first, but that quickly shifted to horror and fear as he reached the point where he told them about the strange tingling sensation before he'd told Elias information he hadn't wanted to.

As he finished, he looked away. “The feeling of being watched doesn't follow me here. My office, it... it feels safe from even those prying eyes. I don't know why, but it does.”

“I don't like this. I _really_ hate this, actually,” Tim muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What do we do now, boss?”

Jon looked at them, then towards the box that contained the documents relating to Naomi Herne's case. There was a long pause as his mind raced.

Elias had warned him against continuing to research the Lukas family and Tivermere, but he didn't know why. Was it because the Lukases would somehow find out and punish him? Or was it because Elias didn't want him finding something out? If it were the latter, Jon knew he couldn't leave it alone; he would uncover whatever it was Elias was hiding. However, the repercussions of the former were enough to make Jon second guess his resolve. He didn't know which of them it was, or even if there was something else entirely that he was missing, but he did know one thing: he was not letting his assistants take the fall for him.

“I'm going to keep looking into Miss Herne's case,” he announced, mind made up. “I'm assigning the rest of you to general organization of the Archives. Currently, it's just sorting by date, and validity, as you're all aware. This means that if I need to find anything else that relates to the case I'm researching, it should be easier. I want it mainly to be focused on weeding out any discredited or invalid documents and statements that were previously researched.”

Tim looked up, a nervous sort of determination coming over him as he nodded along. “So you're the only one going to be looking into that?” he asked.

“Precisely. I don't want any of you at risk for... whatever reasons Elias warned me to stop for.”

“If we find anything, do you want us to give it to you, still?” Martin asked.

Jon shook his head. “If you leave it out, I'll find it. That way no one can be specifically pointed out for having participated in the investigation past this point.”

“Right. Is there going to be a schedule for who's working in the Archives when?” Sasha asked, opening the box on Jon's desk and rifling through it.

“I- yes, but... Sasha, what are you doing?”

“I'm marking the edges of the pages up! That way you're not the only one who's touched them.”

“Please stop touching the historical documents.”

With an over-dramatic pout, she pulled her hands out of the box, and put the lid back on. She stuck her tongue out at him as she went back to her spot between Martin and Tim.

“Is there anything else any of you want to ask? If not, I'm going to get started on digging through this box and making notes to use as comparison,” Jon asked, looking between the three.

Tim was the only one who didn't shake his head. “Should we just stick to our usual library duties for now, then?”

“Please do. I'll have a schedule for the Archive ready by the end of the week, most likely.”

With a nod, Tim turned and started to usher the others out of the office, loudly announcing that they should leave their boss to brood over his cancelled research project.

Shaking his head, Jon couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. His assistants were a lively bunch, that was for sure. They always were able to bring his mood up, even if it was just for a few moments. Unfortunately, it was only a few moments, this time.

Alone in his office once more, Jon's mind immediately returned to the thinly veiled threat Elias had given him regarding Tivermere and the Lukases. There was something going on there that Elias or the Lukases didn't want people to find out, that he was almost certain of. The questions he had were: what was it; why did they not want people to know; and what would be the consequences for finding out?

As he tugged on a pair of gloves he'd put in his desk drawer, he flipped the lid off of the box of documents. Reaching in, he pulled out the top folder. He scanned over the contents, jotting down any themes that repeated, anything that seemed of note, onto a separate piece of parchment.

The rest of his afternoon passed in much the same way. Grab a document, read it over, make the notations required, cross reference and double check, repeat. It was only a knock on the door to his office that eventually made him break this cycle, and he quickly tidied up as he called out for whoever was knocking to wait a moment.

When he opened the door, he found himself face to face with Sasha. She looked uncharacteristically worried as she asked, “Can I come in for a moment? Before you head out for the night?”

“Of course,” he replied, stepping aside and closing the door behind her. “What's wrong?”

She hesitated, opening her mouth to speak, before closing it once more and shaking her head. “I don't know, quite honestly. There's something that feels dangerous here, Jon. I don't know what it is, but I think we're getting into something far higher over our heads than we even can begin to understand.”

“You're probably right. I can't stop, though. Not when...” he shook his head. “It doesn't matter. I do know how bad this can get, though. I used to work in the Warconan palace, before I came here. I've seen firsthand how weird the situations with the palaces can get.”

“As long as you're sure. I've noticed some... weird worms around the halls, even saw a couple in the gardens as well. Is it alright if I look into those when it's my shift in the Archives?” she asked.

“Of course. I'll also keep an eye out, if you'd like. Sounds like something to do with Bellants, if I'm being honest here...”

“Right. Thanks, Jon, really. I... I don't like working here. In the palace, I mean. Never have.” She laughed, the sound dry and humourless. “It's nice, though, with you around. You were a bit of a crab at first but... you're not bad. I feel like I've got a bit of control over things still, with you around. You listen, and you're good at it. So... thanks, I guess.”

Jon looked down at his hands, rubbing his thumb against his knuckles. “You don't need to thank me. Honestly, if I were able to, I'd probably give you the position I'm in. You've got experience working in Elias' personal library, and know the ins and outs of it better than I do. If anything, I feel like I should be thanking you for being able to keep it running while I hole myself in my office most of the time.”

He glanced up and saw the exasperated yet fond smile on Sasha's face, and did his best to give her his own shy smile. She shook her head, stepping closer and cautiously wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

“You're a goddamn disaster, Sims. Wonderful, yet a disaster. Go home and get some rest, alright? I can help with making a schedule for the Archives tomorrow,” she said, stepping back before he could process what had happened.

“Alright. You as well, Sasha. I'll see you tomorrow.”

She nodded as she left his office, leaving him to his own thoughts once more.

* * *

Georgie huffed at him when he got back, almost an hour after he was supposed to have gotten back. Her irritation grew to concern as he explained the events of the day, however.

“And you're still planning on going deeper into... whatever it is that's happening there?” she asked, poking at the potatoes on her plate halfheartedly.

“Yes. I need to know what it is that's being hidden, Georgie. I don't have the slightest clue as to what it could be, and it... I'm worried. I'm worried that Avonrey isn't as safe as I thought it would be.”

“I'm not going to stop you, but Jon?”

“What is it?”

“If it seems too dangerous, then I'm going to tell you that. If it _gets_ too dangerous, I'm stepping in. For your sake, I hope it's just that Bouchard and whichever Lukas is on the throne now are having a torrid off and on affair or something like that.”

Georgie's joke got a small laugh from Jon, and he shook his head at the sheer ridiculousness of it. “If there was a scandal like that happening between the royal families, I'm not sure if they would be _able_ to keep it under wraps. Elias is one of the biggest gossips in the palace.”

“Still! It could happen!” she laughed, slamming her fork down onto the table for emphasis.

With that, the dour mood broke, and Jon snorted into his shoulder. Work stress could stay at work, he decided, at least for now.

* * *

The week passed quickly. Everyone was getting used to the new schedule that Jon and Sasha had created to encompass the new Archive organization project, and the library was in a little bit of chaos by the time Jon had gotten a chance to go in and check out the week's work in the Archives.

It was a complete mess. Boxes were scattered about, each with a fresh label indicating the dates of the documents within it. Some documents were laying on top of boxes, folders either discarded or lost over time, their words open to the air. Jon noticed that there were several new boxes that had “discredited” written across their labels below the dates scrawled there, as well. He skimmed through those ones quickly, just to be sure that there were none that had been misfiled.

Moving on, he took note of a box labelled Bellants, with a sub-label that read “worms.” That must have been Sasha's research, he thought, picking it up and setting it on one of the tables to look through it.

Most of the documents had to do with the transfer of power and how the royal hierarchy worked in Bellants, and Jon found himself spending several minutes flipping through those documents. Apparently, there was always supposed to be a king and queen, though they didn't need to be related, or married to one another. How they were chosen was... vague at best, and Jon could only pick out that there was something to do with love and home involved.

Something else that stood out to him were a few documents about the Hive-Queen Jane Prentiss being seen near the borders a couple years back. He filed those away in his mind as something important to look into more.

He was about to set the box aside when he noticed a folder that was set in the box oddly. It was tucked against the box side, label unreadable, pressed firmly upright by the stack of papers and folders laying properly in the box. Carefully, Jon slid it up and out, laying it on the table in front of him.

Flipping it open, he read over the first page.

The text was written formally, and it appeared to be rather old by the quality of the writing and ink. As Jon read, he felt a cold lump settle in his stomach.

It was an official court document, detailing the alliance between Bellants and Avonrey. There was talk of non-interference policies, border adjustments and patrolling, and how long it was all supposed to last. According to the document, these policies and the alliance were set to run out very soon, and a new treaty was to be written in the coming months.

Everything clicked at once in Jon's mind. The worms Sasha had been seeing, the Hive-Queen, the treaties... a bone-deep certainty settled in. Jane Prentiss, the Hive-Queen of Bellants, had no intentions of renewing the treaties.

He had no idea what to do with this information, however, as he didn't have any solid proof. Tucking the documents in between books in his bag, Jon left the Archive and went to his office. He wasn't officially scheduled for it, and even if he were, the others knew he was still working on collecting information for Miss Herne.

He threw himself into his work on Tivermere and the Lukas family, barely even acknowledging the others when they tried to get him to join them for lunch. He knew if he stopped, if he let himself be anything less than fully engrossed in his research, that he would start thinking of the new situation with Bellants.

He left work late, that day. Georgie was none-too-pleased, especially when he showed her the document he had slipped from the Archives. She didn't press him, though; when he asked her to drop it, which he appreciated. It likely helped that he'd told her that he would cover making dinner for both the rest of the week, and the following one.

That night, when he slept, he dreamt of the graveyard, watching Miss Herne as he had the night after she had given him her statement. The only difference this time, was that until he found her, he'd watched squirming, silver worms crawl through the pitted, pockmarked flesh of a woman with long, matted black hair he didn't recognize... at least not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK at me, updating on a regular schedule. I honestly have been considering changing it to every week, but chapters take me about 9-10 days to finish, sooo... maybe, maybe not! I've got 13 chapters finished, 20 planned out, and more to come after that. The doc is currently sitting at a healthy 140k as of about halfway through writing chapter 14.
> 
> As always, if you want to talk about TMA with me, feel free to send me asks or messages on tumblr @thearch1ve, and thanks to my wonderful beta reader/editor @sol1loqu1st on tumblr, without whom this would be significantly lower quality!
> 
> Thanks for reading, and leave a kudos/comment if you liked it! I thrive off your feedback and regularly read the comments I get over again when I need motivation to continue!


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter: canon-typical worms, illness/disease, bugs, general Corruption unpleasantness.

Jon forced himself to go into work the next day, no matter how deeply he wanted to stay home. Georgie tried to convince him to stay in, to take the day off to get his head on straight, but he'd waved her off. She could tell that he was in a bad state, and he didn't want to admit that he was feeling as bad as he had the first time he'd dreamt about Miss Herne.

By the time his assistants had gotten into work, he was doing a bit better. He'd taken up organizing the Archives until they got in, and the task was just enough to take his attention off his own problems.

“What- _Christ_ , Jon, you look like shit,” Tim said when he saw Jon's face.

“Thank you for that astoundingly deep commentary, Tim. Truly, a revolutionary insight,” Jon snapped, though there was less bite in it than he'd thought there'd be. Still, he cringed internally as it came out. The last thing he wanted to do was push away the only people he knew were on his side. “Sorry, it... was a very rough night.”

“Georgie get on your case for leaving so late?” Tim asked, taking a seat on a clear spot on Jon's desk.

“She did, but that's nothing new. No, it was... it didn't have anything to do with Georgie. She's honestly one of the few truly sturdy presences around me at this point.”

“What made you look like you've been roughed up by a rabid raccoon, then?”

Jon hesitated for a moment, unsure if it was a good idea to tell anyone about the dreams, still. “It... I found some... concerning documents in the Archive yesterday. I brought them home to look at some more, and to show Georgie, but... it didn't help,” he said, picking his words carefully. He reached to his bag and pulled out the folder he'd taken and held it out to Tim.

Tim took it, flipping though it without a word. As he read, his eyebrows slowly raised up his forehead, and when he closed it, he whistled lowly. He passed the folder back to Jon and rubbed at the back of his neck. “So, what can we do about that?” he asked. “We're only library staff.”

Jon shrugged. “Not sure. This does explain some... slightly concerning worm sightings Sasha's had, though. If Prentiss wanted to scope out the palace subtly, the worms are certainly a good way to do so. We should wait until the others get a chance to see this before we discuss our options, though. I'm not sure if Sasha has or not, since it was in the box rather... strangely.”

“Got it. Weird that Martin isn't in yet, though. Other than you, he's usually the one here earliest,” Tim said, hopping off the desk. “Want me to make some tea to pass time 'til Sasha arrives?”

“That'd be nice, thank you. I think I'll join you in the break room?”

“Ooh, look at you, socializing with us lower ranked employees. Must have really had a hard time last night if you're up for joining me in the shitty little break room we've made a home out of.”

Tim held the door open for Jon, grinning teasingly down at him. Jon stuck his tongue out at Tim as he passed, and he could have sworn he heard Tim walk into the door frame as he tried to follow Jon.

The break room was as uninspiring as they all made it out to be. It was small, with a counter along one wall, a row of cupboards running above it, and a table with a couple of cheap wooden chairs. One of them – probably Martin, if Jon had to guess – had brought in an electric kettle at some point. That kettle had become one of the saving graces of the library, alongside Martin's quite formidable abilities to make the worst tea taste fine.

Jon sat down at the table as Tim went about filling up the kettle and preparing the two tea cups for them. He watched, curious, as Tim added a spoonful and a half of sugar to one cup. He wasn't actually sure which of the two cups were supposed to be his. He'd never been particularly picky when it came to tea, and usually just took whatever was offered to him.

Once the water was boiling, Tim poured it over the tea infusers. He took out a small pot of honey from the cupboard and added just a little to the cup that he hadn't added any sugar to once they'd been steeping long enough. With a flourish, he picked both cups up by the saucer, and carried them over to the table, taking his seat across from Jon.

He passed Jon the cup he'd added honey to, and Jon took it readily enough. He wasn't sure he'd ever added honey to his tea when making it himself, but figured that Tim had figured out how Martin made the tea he always brought Jon.

Upon taking a sip, he made a face. It was close, but a tad too sweet.

“Did I get it right, boss?” Tim asked, looking excited.

“A bit too much honey. Just a little too sweet for my taste,” Jon admitted, smirking into his cup. “I'm not picky, though. It's fine.”

Tim snapped, frowning dramatically. “Damn, thought I'd actually managed to match Martin's tea for once. I'm not sure how he makes it so consistently.”

“Practice, probably. He makes it daily, so he likely has it down to a science.”

“Yeah, but still. I can't even make my _own_ tea to my taste, yet he can get it exactly every single time. I watched him make it once, then replicated him exactly, and mine still somehow tasted off!”

A laugh came from the door to the break room, and they both turned to see Sasha watching them with a curious grin. “So the head librarian decides to come out of his office, I see.” she joked. She looked at the cups in front of them, then folded her arms and glared at Tim. “None for me?”

“Didn't know when you'd be in! If you'll take a seat, however, I can prep some right now for you, your highness,” Tim teased right back, standing and giving her a dramatic bow as he made his way back over to the counter.

Shaking her head in exasperation, Sasha took the seat to the right of Jon, next to the wall. “What's got you coming to join us out here?” she asked.

Jon pushed the folder he'd brought with him over to her. “This. Wasn't sure if you'd seen it or not, but judging by how content you seem, I figure not, now.”

Sasha read through the pages while Tim prepared her tea. As she read, her expression grew close, eyebrows knitting together, and a small frown pursing her lips. When she pushed it aside in favour of grabbing the tea Tim had set in front of her, she shook her head.

“So what does it mean?” she asked.

“It means we may have an explanation for why you've been seeing so many worms around lately. I believe Prentiss may be using them as a way to spy on the palace without drawing too much attention to herself,” Jon explained, tucking the folder back into his bag.

“Why wouldn't Bouchard try and renew the treaties is what I'm wondering. Isn't Bellants one of our better trade deals?” Tim added.

“I have no idea. He was the king when this one was signed as far as I can tell, but I don't know what his stance is with Bellants these days.”

Sasha hummed. “I think we should figure out what we can do to protect ourselves, first. We can worry about others once we have some sort of idea on how to defend against Prentiss and her lot.”

“Agreed. We should also look into what may be able to slow or stop the worms. For now, crushing them on sight is probably our best bet, but I'd rather not have to wash my shoes every single day until this is handled.”

“D'you think we should bring it up to Bouchard, boss?” Tim asked, fingers tapping against the tabletop. Other than that slight tic, he appeared as calm and jovial as ever, but Jon had figured out that Tim only tapped when he was particularly stressed.

“I don't see why not. However, I'd rather have some solid ideas for what we can put in place as defence around the palace to mention if he asks, first.”

Abruptly, Sasha stood, hands slapping hard against the rickety table. “Right! I'm going to get started on digging through the things on Bellants that I've already found, if that's alright?” she asked, a wild look in her eyes and a large grin on her face.

Jon blinked up at her before nodding, once. He didn't move as he watched her pick her tea cup up and wash it out, then leave without even bothering to dry it. He glanced over at Tim, who just shrugged. “I'll handle the front desk, today?” he asked.

Coughing to clear his throat, Jon nodded. “Yes, right that... that will be fine, Tim. Thank you for the tea. I'm going to head to my office if that's fine with you?”

Tim tossed himself back in his seat, nearly knocking it over as he threw his arm over his forehead in a mock faint. “No one wants me around, I see how it is!” he cried, slumping forwards onto his arms and hiding his face. “You go ahead! I'll just sit here alone!”

Jon snorted as he shook his head. “Get to work, Stoker,” he laughed, patting him on the shoulder as he got up. He grabbed Tim's now empty cup and washed it alongside his own before leaving to hide away in his office, yet again.

Back in his office, he continued to note down anything he found of note in documents about Bellants. Even so early on, he believed he was beginning to see the patterns in it all.

Major themes he noticed appeared to be fog, isolation, feeling alone even in crowds, and, as he suspected, interactions with the Lukas family.

He knew that Tivermere was a floating nation, one that drifted above, bordered and kept safe by the sky that surrounded it. What he didn't know was how that related to the other themes. One theory he had started throwing around in his mind was that this was connected to whatever Dread God watched over Tivermere, and that somehow Miss Herne and others like her had angered it in some way.

He didn't like that it was the one that made the most sense.

Steeling his resolve, he noted down to look into the Dread Gods that guarded and protected the nations of the continent. He wanted to see if he could find any solid research on them that wasn't locked behind red tape a mile long. It wasn't likely, since knowledge of that kind was often _highly_ protected, solely for those in line for the thrones and their personal advisors. The fact he even knew about it was testament to how close he'd been in Warcona to the Weaver-Queen.

He didn't want to know how Georgie knew as much as she did about what watched over Avonrey. (He deeply, truly did wish to know, though he resented himself for the thought.)

With those notes down, he checked the clock. It was near enough to lunch that he could justify leaving his office and bothering the others. Locking up, he tried to figure out where he would even find Tim or Sasha.

The first place he went was the Archives, as Sasha had said she was planning on continuing her research into Bellants, but found it dark and empty. A strange twinge of panic laced through his chest as his mind drifted back to the statements about Tivermere, and of Miss Herne's account of her experiences.

He almost tripped over himself as he ran to the front desk, barely breathing as he hoped desperately that the two were there.

Seeing the familiar faces of his colleagues blink confusedly down at him as he barrelled into the side of the front desk let him breathe easily once more. Or, well, it mostly did. The impact of the desk in Jon's chest knocked the limited amount of wind he'd been taking in right back out of him. He curled in on himself, gripping the edge of the desk for support and Sasha and Tim watched in baffled concern.

“Everything alright there, boss?” Tim asked, each syllable somehow sounding more confused than the last.

Jon nodded, wheezing, and gave him a thumbs up.

Sasha just passed him the glass of water that had been on the desk. He took it and took a drink, taking a deep breath as he set it back down.

“What's got you looking so spooked?” she asked, pushing the glass aside and leaning over the desk top towards him.

“Nothing I just... The documents about Tivermere are getting to me a bit, I suppose,” he said, rubbing his palm over his chest. It hurt to talk, and he was fairly certain that he was choking the words out rather than saying them. He really hoped he hadn't broken or fractured anything with that collision.

“Are they at all like Miss Herne's account?” Tim grimaced.

“Quite a few are, yes. There's... well, it doesn't matter. Did either of you have plans for lunch already?” They both shook their heads. “Good,” Jon continued, “I was thinking about going to that cafe we went to a few months back. The one with the cheese buns? If either of you would like to join me...” he trailed off, hoping that he didn't need to further clarify.

Tim beamed at him, picking his coat up from under the desk. “I think I'd like that. You paying?”

“I wouldn't be offering if I wasn't.”

“In that case, count me in as well. I'm not going to pass up lunch paid for by my boss,” Sasha teased, lightly elbowing Jon as she stepped around the desk, her own coat in hand.

It was nice, Jon found, that he was still in a position that he could have a casual lunch with his... he wasn't sure. He thought of them as friends, but as far as he could tell, they just thought of him as their boss. Just a coworker, a colleague, someone they worked with and sometimes had lunch with. It was... well, it didn't feel great, that was for sure.

After they got back from lunch, Jon continued his routine. He set aside the Tivermere documents for the time being, opting to pull out and continue some notations on a large tome he'd been making before the whole... situation with Naomi Herne had arrived.

The rest of the week was much of the same. He would get in early, Tim would bother him to join him in the break room for tea before they officially opened the library, he'd return to his office and either look through documents Sasha brought on Bellants or continue on the Herne case, and then they'd go for lunch and he'd work on his normal projects until it was time to close up.

As the week went on, though, Tim voiced his worry over Martin's absence more and more often. Jon was... well, he was a bit irritated that he hadn't even bothered to ask someone to let them know he'd be absent, but otherwise figured that Martin simply had caught the flu.

When his absence continued into the next week, though, Jon couldn't find it in himself to write it off as just a flu. He did firmly tell the others that whatever it was that was keeping Martin from coming in to work was likely not wise to mess with, however, and that if he found out that either of them had gone to investigate, he would write them up for it.

It was halfway through the week when Martin burst into the library looking as if he'd just run a marathon.

Jon was standing at the front desk, chatting about what they'd do for lunch when Martin arrived, and he nearly jumped out of his skin as the doors slammed open.

“How long was I gone?” Martin asked, eyes flicking between the three standing at the desk, panic heavy in his voice.

“Uh... All last week and 'til today?” Tim said, “Let's... Jon, how about we all go to your office.”

Feeling as though his heart was finally no longer trying to escape his chest, Jon nodded, waving them along. In his office, he took his usual seat behind his desk, while Martin pulled up a spare chair. Tim and Sasha hovered on either side of Martin, clearly unsure of what to do.

“What happened?” Jon asked, pulling out a piece of parchment and his ink without even thinking about it.

“What day is it today?” Martin replied.

“Wednesday.”

“Right, okay, _Christ._ Okay, sorry, just... give me a moment,” he sighed, leaning forward and putting his face in his hands. “It's been... well, it's been a hard couple weeks.”

Jon's face scrunched up, mentally trying to figure out the math behind what Martin was saying. “Couple weeks? Martin, how long... what _happened_?”

Sitting up straight once more, Martin sighed. He rubbed his hands against his pant legs and looked straight at Jon. “Prentiss happened,” he stated, and Jon felt his blood run ice cold.

“Go on,” he prompted, readying his pen over the parchment to take down Martin's account.

“So, back on... the uh, the Saturday before last? Before I was gone the whole week, I decided I was going to check out and see if there was anyone who was mentioned in any of the documents regarding Bellants that was still alive. I got that far, at least. One Timothy Hodges, last recorded living in the city even, was alive as of last year. I ended up finding his flat, and my plan was that I was going to knock on his door, explain the situation, and ask him about what he knew.

“Turns out? Can't tell people much when you're dead. The landlord was the one who answered the door, and when I explained who I was looking for, he sighed, and told me that Hodges has been dead for just over a year now. Or... well, that wasn't quite it. He said that... Hodges had passed away, and that he hoped that the Hive was happy with her new subject? Which pretty much cemented in my mind that Prentiss did _not_ want to let him go, in the end.

“Anyways, that was all well and good, and I got... some information out of it, at least. I asked the landlord if I could take a look around the flat, and he agreed readily enough, telling me that there hadn't been any new tenants since Hodges tried to burn the damn place down.

“It was bad. Real bad. The landlord wouldn't go in to the upstairs flat, claiming that it made him uneasy, that he felt unsafe up there, even though the fire brigade said that the damage was all cosmetic. The walls were scorched black still, and there was this... smell that pervaded the place? It was like... rotting meat, mixed with the acrid tang of smoke. I ended up having to cover my nose after a couple minutes.

“The flat seemed pretty normal, even if it was in a bad state, for the most part. Living room was clear, as were the kitchen and washroom. It was... The bedroom was the worst part. That was where the smell was coming from, and it was absolutely nauseating that close to it, even through the closed door.

“I knew the _second_ that I got to that damn shut door that something wasn't right. Not just because of the smell, either. Where the rest of the house, the rest of the doors, were all burnt, covered in soot and grime over a year of disuse, this door was... well, clean isn't the right word. It was black, but it was a thick coating of dirt and I'm pretty sure mould as well, rather than smoke and ash damage.

“I didn't want to open that door. I really, honestly didn't want to,” Martin laughed, the sound bitter and dry, and he wiped at his eyes. “But I did. I'm really glad that it's getting colder, since I had my gloves on at least. Had to throw those out when I got home.

“Inside was warm. Far warmer than it should have been in a flat with no heating going and that's been abandoned for over a _year_. Despite the fact it was the middle of the day, it was dark, too. Almost pitch dark, even, only the light from the doorway coming in to let me see the vague outlines of the shapes in the room.

“I had a torch with me, of course. Asked the landlord for it before going up, since I wasn't sure about the lighting situation. Hadn't needed it 'til that moment, and I wish I hadn't turned it on.

“When I did, the room was cast in the stark glow of the gas light. I-I don't think I'm ever going to forget the sight I saw in there,” he paused to take a shaky breath, eyes closed. “Inside was a man. He was a bit shorter than me, around Tim's height I'd say, and he was facing the wall opposite the door. Around him, completely carpeting the room, were _thousands_ of those silver, writhing worms. I don't think he would have even noticed me, even if I'd still turned the torch on, had I not gasped at the sight.

“I did, though, and at the sound, his head whipped around, dislodging even more of those worms from where they crawled through his grey, pitted skin. The moment he noticed me, I slammed the door shut again. A few of the worms had gotten out, though, crawling under the crack in the door, and I stomped on them, feeling their awful, bulbous bodies pop under my heel. I ran, then. Locked the main door to the flat as quickly as I could, handed the landlord the torch back, and left without another word.

Sasha put her hand on Martin's shoulder as he took a moment to collect himself. “Sorry I just... it's a lot. There's still more I just...” he muttered, taking the handkerchief that Tim offered him.

“When I got home, I thought about trying to contact one of you three to let you know what happened. I was exhausted, though, and I think I just barely managed to change into pyjamas before collapsing into bed,” he continued, seeming a bit steadier with the small points of contact that Sasha's hand gave him. “I woke up a few hours later. It was just starting to get dark, and I don't think I was asleep for more than... five hours I want to say? Pretty long for a nap, but still not as long as I wanted to have slept after that.

“I heard a knocking at my front door. It was just a couple of raps on the wood, but I heard it loud and clear, even in my bedroom. I got up, figuring it was probably fairly important if whoever was there was knocking at dusk on a Saturday. I reached out, planning on turning my bedside lamp on so I could get into some proper trousers before answering the door at least, but when I twisted the knob, nothing happened.

“I tried the light switch for my room, then, thinking I probably just unplugged the lamp, or that the bulb burnt out or something. Nothing. Another knock came, and I figured it was... probably just one of my neighbours coming to ask if my power was out as well. No big deal.

“I went to open the door, but paused before I grabbed the handle. What if it was Prentiss or... or Hodges, wanting me to open the door and let their _worms_ into my flat? I had no way to check who was there if I didn't open the door; my landlord never thought to get one of those peepholes installed.

“It was as I thought about this, hesitating, that I heard this... squelching noise. Looking down, I noticed more of those worms, squeezing in under the door. I panicked. Thankfully, I was wearing my slippers when I left my room – again, _really_ glad it's been getting colder out – and I just started stomping on them once again. I shoved towels and blankets up and in every single crack I could find, sealing my flat _air tight._ And I waited.

“Sleep wasn't easy. Every time I managed to drift off, the knocking would start again, waking me up. I had enough canned food that that wasn't a problem, and whatever it was left the pipes well enough alone, so I still had water. The boredom was what did it, really. I went through most of the books I had after the first few days, and you can only play solitaire so many times before you start to hate how cards look,” he laughed again, shaking his head. “If I ever see another can of peaches, I'll-” he took a deep breath before continuing once more.

“Eleven days. That went on for _eleven days_. At least if you guys are right about what day it is. I woke up this morning and... I don't know. There was something different. I think whatever it was brought that _smell_ with it. That rotting, decayed smell. It was gone, though, today. No knocking, no smell, no... worms. So I got dressed, grabbed the few things I needed, and came here as fast as I could,” Martin opened his eyes as he finished, gripping Sasha's hand in his, tightly, for just a moment.

Jon took a deep breath as Martin finished, setting his pen down and pushing the transcript aside with shaky hands. “I'm not filing that,” was the first thing he could think of saying, cringing as he did so. “That... well, that's honestly worse than I expected.”

“Than you expected?” Martin asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I suspected that something connected to one of our active cases – or even Elias, honestly – had come up that was keeping you home. I... I'm going to talk to Elias about giving you a secure room in the palace until you can comfortably and safely find a new flat, as I presume you're not entirely keen on returning to your current one,” he said.

Martin blinked at him, looking a bit surprised. “I-I mean, I'm not but... you don't have to do that, Jon, it's fine. I can...” he trailed off as Jon met his eyes, steady and sure. They stared at each other for a long moment, Jon trying his hardest to make it clear that he wasn't budging on this situation at all. With a sigh, Martin looked away first. “Fine. You're right that I don't want to go back to my flat, and finding a new one on such short notice would be hard. Does this mean you're going to bring up the Bellants concerns with Elias, then?”

Jon nodded. “I think at this point we can't wait until we have solid evidence for protection measures. There's already been enough built up that I believe we have something solid to mention it as a concern.”

“Wait, what built up? What happened while I was out?”

“Jon found a document that seems to be the original treaties between Bellants and Avonrey detailing the alliance. If they're real, then the alliance is running out soon, and we should be careful about dealing with this without Bouchard's backing us,” Sasha explained. “We can give you everything we've found to go over, if you want, once you've had a chance to calm down and eat something that isn't canned.”

“... Right, I- Thank you. I'd like that, I think.”

Jon watched as Martin let Tim coax him up and out to the break room, talking to him about what mundane things he'd missed in his absence. He glanced at Sasha, still standing in the middle of the office, waiting for her to do something. Eventually she sighed, taking the seat that Martin had vacated.

“I don't know what to do,” she muttered. “This is all so... confusing. There's so many layers to it all, and I don't even know where to start. You... Jon, what all do you know? What did you actually do before coming to Avonrey?”

He hesitated. He couldn't tell her about the Dread Gods. It wasn't even that he didn't want to; he couldn't, because if he did, and Elias found out, he would be imprisoned for life at _best_. “I... can't say what I know. You're aware that before coming here, I was a much higher position in the royal court of Warcona, correct?” he asked.

“Yeah, that's something that's come up before. Just how high up were you, anyways?”

“... Personal royal advisor to the Weaver-Queen, Annabelle Cane. I was her right hand, in almost every sense. Being a librarian is far different than the pay-grade I had back home, and far lower on the social ladder, even if it's for the royal library,” Jon admitted. He folded his hands on his desk, trying to resist the urge to pick at the small cuts on them.

Sasha stared at him, expression completely unreadable. “You know things reserved exclusively for the nobles, don't you.”

It wasn't a question, he noticed, simply a fact she was stating. “I do, yes. Which is why I can't tell you what I know about this. As far as I know? Elias isn't even aware of how much I know. He knows what I did, what my job was back then, but there's nothing to give away that he knows that I know almost as much as he does about what's happening.”

“What... what _is_ happening, Jon? I don't care about specifics, I just... I want to know what I should be prepared for,” she asked, almost begging.

“... A lot. I don't know the extent of it, the names of the powers at play, but I do know they're far beyond our understanding and comprehension. Prentiss is only the start, I believe.”

“So is there a-a cosmic war or something at play?”

Jon shrugged. He didn't confirm or deny, because he simply didn't know. It was beyond him, still, what the things that protected each country actually wanted from its subjects. He knew of fourteen powers, one for each country on the continent, but other than that... He would have to look around for more, no matter how unlikely it was that he would find anything.

“Right... we should probably go make sure Tim isn't burning the kitchen down,” Sasha laughed, and the sound was harsh on Jon's ears. It wasn't entirely humourless, but it was far from the light, jovial laugh he was used to from her. Something about it made his chest hurt.

“You can do that. I'm going to go see if I can find Elias and talk to him about the whole situation we've found ourselves in the middle of.”

Sasha nodded, smiling at him, her eyes sad. “Be careful not to get too far in over your head, will you? It'd suck to lose a friend because he was too stubborn to not ask for help when he needed it,” she said.

He watched her in a stunned confusion as she left his office, closing the door behind her. She had called him a friend? That sure was news to him. He shook his head, trying to get his thoughts in order once more. Sentimentality could wait, he had things to do.

It took him the better part of an hour to track Elias down. He'd checked his office, the throne room, and checked with Rosie about any meetings he could be in. Eventually, he'd knocked on the door to Elias' personal library and finally was rewarded with the sight of the Seer-King.

“Jon? Good lord, you look like you've been running around the palace for-”

“The better part of an hour, yes. That's because I have been,” Jon snapped. “There's... we've run into a bit of a situation.”

Elias raised an eyebrow at this. “Something that requires my personal attention?” he asked, disbelief colouring his tone.

“Considering part of it – most of it, actually – has to do with official royal documents regarding the alliance between Avonrey and Bellants, and what we believe to be a direct attack on a palace employee? I would say so.”

Jon stared up at Elias, panting still from running around, not breaking eye contact. After a few moments, Elias stepped aside, motioning for Jon to enter the room.

Elias' personal library was nothing like the general palace library. It was a single floor, a single, simple room, with walls lined with dark oak shelves. Old, cloth and leather-bound books took up most of the space, a few small statuettes that acted as bookends dotting the shelves at irregular intervals. There was a large desk with a high-backed leather chair behind it at one end, which is where Jon assumed Elias did most of his reading. On the other side of the room were two shorter-backed chairs, made of what looked to be the same leather as the other chair, sitting on either side of a small side table. A slightly used ashtray was set on it, next to a lit lamp.

“What do you mean by direct attack on a palace employee?” Elias asked, once the door was closed behind them.

Jon gave an abbreviated account of Martin's statement to him, then, not even bothering to fight the tingling static that Elias' question came with. Once finished, he took a deep breath and said, “I believe this has to do with the power that watches over Bellants, and grants Jane Prentiss her abilities. I don't know what it wants, nor do I know what title the Dread God watching over it has, but I'm certain that it has something against the Watcher and those it... well, watches over.”

He was surprised when he realized that there had been nothing prompting him to explain what he thought of the situation. Doing his best to fight down the anxiety gnawing at his stomach, Jon met Elias' eyes, trying to channel the same kind of composure he had whenever he had to face down Annabelle Cane.

Elias watched him for a moment, a curious expression on his face. He took a seat at one of the chairs beside the small table, and gestured for Jon to take the other. Jon sat, stiffly, ready to leave at a moment's notice.

“Your CV said you'd worked with the royal court in Warcona,” Elias started, opening a drawer on the table. “It said you'd been an advisor, and that you'd worked with the court nobles on a personal level.”

“... That's because I did.”

Elias chuckled, lighting the pipe he pulled from the drawer. “Perhaps. You didn't write that you were directly involved with advising the Weaver-Queen herself, though. Why is that?” he asked.

There was no tingling that prompted him to answer, Jon noticed. “I was applying for a library position, not an advisory one. I also don't particularly want another advisory position” he said, carefully.

“Hm. Well, quite honestly, I don't particularly want a personal advisor, so there's no worry for that. I do think that I'd like to train you for a new position.”

“Am I able to turn this position down?”

“Oh, please, Jon, you're not about to turn it down,” Elias laughed. “It'd be stupid, since you don't have to give up your current position to be trained.”

Jon shifted in his seat. He didn't like that Elias was right that he wasn't going to turn it down, especially not upon learning that information. “How would that work, then? I don't exactly want to up and abandon my assistants when we've finally started to make progress on organizing the Archives.”

Elias tapped his pipe against the ceramic of the ashtray, dumping the contents into it. Looking directly at Jon, he said, “One day a week, you meet me here in the morning after opening the main library. We go over documents that are restricted solely for those I deem allowed, and discuss handling how would be best to handle the situations that are likely to continue to arise with the other nations and their Gods.”

With a sigh that carried the weight of the world, Jon pushed his glasses up and pinched the bridge of his nose. He slumped slightly, dreading the fact that he was going to accept. “So personal assistant position but unofficial and in training,” he grumbled. “Will I at least be getting a raise?”

“Of course. I also am willing to raise the salaries of your assistants to make up for the amount of work they'll have to take over on the days you're here.”

“Right. Alright,” Jon said, sitting up straight once more. “I accept the position. Will there be another contract that I'm going to have to sign?”

Getting to his feet, Elias held out a hand to Jon to help him up. “I'll get to that next week,” he said as he pulled Jon up. “For now...”

Elias turned and walked over behind the desk. He opened one of the drawers and rummaged around for a moment before letting out a small “aha!” and pulling something out of it. He walked back over to Jon and held out his hand once more. This time, there was a small brass key in his palm.

Jon took it, giving Elias a confused glance as he inspected it.

“I believe Mr. Blackwood will be needing a place to stay until he can find a new, more permanent living arrangement,” he explained. “That is a key to one of the guest chambers, complete with a full en-suite, that he may use until he finds somewhere else to stay.”

“... Of course. Thank you, Elias. I'll be sure to give that to him,” Jon said, slowly backing away, edging towards the door to the personal library once more.

“Excellent. I'll be seeing you, then,” Elias said, turning away from Jon and looking over his shelves.

Jon took that as a dismissal, and quietly exited the room. He took a moment in the hall to try and process the exchange he had just had before realizing that he absolutely would not be managing that any time soon. Shaking his head, he set off to find his assistants. Martin still needed to be made aware he didn't have to worry about living arrangements for the time being.

The others were in the break room when he found them.

“How did it go?” Tim asked from where he'd hopped up onto the counter. He had a cup of tea in his hands, and Jon had to wonder who exactly it was who made it.

“It went... decent. I've got a new position I'm going to be trained for, one day a week. Elias is taking the situation seriously, though, so I can't say that I'm upset with this,” he explained, going to take the seat he'd started to think of as his at the table. He placed the key on the table and pushed it towards Martin. “Elias said to give this to you. It's a key to one of the guest rooms, even has an en-suite, apparently.”

Martin took the key, blinking at Jon for a long moment. “I- uh, thanks. Thank you, Jon, I... yeah,” he said, looking pointedly at the key in his hand. “I'll have to go get some stuff from my flat still, but... I'm glad that I don't have to worry about this at least.” He glanced up, giving Jon a tired smile.

Jon tried to give a reassuring one in return, but judging by the way Martin started to crack up a bit, he didn't exactly succeed. “What?” he asked, brows furrowing.

Martin shook his head, smile a bit more genuine as he laughed. “Sorry, you just... You look kinda ridiculous when you try and look nice.”

“Well, _thank_ you for that. I can't exactly change my face.”

“No, no, it's... nice? You fail miserably at actually looking like you're being nice, but you're trying and that comes through well enough.”

Jon felt his face heat up a bit, and coughed into his elbow. “Right, uh, well. I'm glad that you're safe. I'm... going to continue what I was doing... before,” he said, pushing to his feet. He kept his eyes to the ground as he hurried out of the break room and back to his office.

It was only once he was back in his personal haven that he realized that he hadn't actually figured out what it was Elias had planned to do to fix the situation with Prentiss, nor explained anything properly to his assistants.

He decided he would explain more over lunch, and that for now, it was better if he kept working on the Herne case. He hadn't found much else in the last week, but he did hope that maybe something else would come to be a little bit clearer if he read more.

Nothing got cleared up by the time lunch rolled around and Tim knocked on his office door.

“Come on, boss, time to eat!” he called through the closed door.

Jon sighed, shutting the folder he'd been flipping through. He pushed to his feet, grabbing his coat in case they were going out, and made his way to the front desk to meet with everyone else.

“Glad to see you joining us again, boss!” Tim said as he saw him approach. He clapped Jon on the shoulder when he reached them. “So, where to for lunch today? I was thinking about going out to grab something from the usual cafe, but I'm open to other options.”

“I'd... rather stay in, if that's not a problem?” Martin asked, hands fidgeting with the hem of his sweater. “It's all just a bit fresh still, and I don't really want to risk running into whatever it was that was outside my door-” he rambled, only stopping when he saw Tim raise his hands in a placating gesture.

“Hey, no worries Marto! I could bring something back if anyone has any requests? That way _you_ get a bit of variety in sustenance _and_ you don't have to go out to get it yourself!” Tim suggested.

Martin thought about it for a moment before nodding slowly. “I think that's fine by me. You know my usual order.”

“That I do. Anyone else want something different, or should I go for the usuals all around?”

Sasha agreed to her usual readily enough, while Jon just shrugged and mumbled something about not having a preference. Tim seemed to think that it was good enough and left with a flourish of his coat.

The rest of them headed to the break room, settling into the same spots they'd been in that morning. Jon tucked one leg beneath him as he settled into his seat, coat hanging off the back of it. Martin sat on his left, and Sasha on his left, with Tim's seat across from him left empty.

“So, you didn't mention if Elias had anything that could help with the situation at hand this morning. Did he even give any suggestions?” Sasha asked, leaning back in her seat.

Jon shook his head. “As far as I know he's going to look into it further, and work with me during the 'training days' he's decided are needed in order to find something.”

Sasha blew a raspberry at him. “Boo, I was hoping he'd be useful for something for once.”

“I did as well, but that would be asking a bit much, wouldn't it?”

“Yeah, probably. He did at least give _some_ help, though,” she looked at Martin as she said that. “How does the room look, by the way? You and Tim went to grab the things you still needed earlier today, right?”

Martin nodded. “We did, yeah. It's nice, actually. Wish I still had my kitchen, but I'm not going to be complaining too much about it, especially considering that Bouchard came by while I was setting my things up as well to let me know that–” He paused, clearing his throat and putting on a bad impersonation of Elias. “I have full access to any employee amenities that I may need while I'm living here.”

Sasha snorted at the impression. “Well, that's good, at least. You get to use the fancy kitchen downstairs, now!” she cheered.

“I do! I'm honestly pretty excited for that,” Martin admitted sheepishly. “Even though the rest of this kinda sucks, I've been wanting to get permission to use the downstairs kitchen for _ages_. It's huge! It's got so much stuff, so many things to use and experiment with!”

“And the best tea selection in the palace,” she added pointedly.

Martin nodded sagely. He tried to keep serious, but ended up cracking up after a moment. “Really, though, it's... I'm glad that I've got this place, at least. I wouldn't want to put anyone out, or – gods forbid – in danger by staying at their place.”

Sasha hummed a bit. “Yeah, makes sense. Although, I want to argue that you wouldn't be putting anyone out by staying with them if you had to. No, you're not allowed to make a counter argument.”

Jon tuned the conversation out after that, opting to think about what he had to... look forward to? Dread? He still wasn't sure how to feel about the promotion that Elias was insistent he took. Out of everything that had happened, that was the strangest part of it all, to him. He knew about the Dread Gods and what they were capable of. One of his assistants being held hostage for eleven days by a murderous living hive and it's parasitic worm inhabitants was just another Tuesday for him. Being offered a promotion he had explicitly said he hadn't wanted, and still accepting it for some reason, though, was beyond him.

He was broken from his thoughts as Tim strode into the room carrying two large paper bags in his arms.

“Orders up!” he announced, setting the bags on the table in front of them.

Tim passed out the food, chatting aimlessly about the employees at the cafe and the gossip they'd told him while he waited. Jon couldn't help but think how well Tim would fit in with the court with how much he liked to gossip. He didn't voice this as Tim handed him a small bowl filled with whatever the soup of the day was. He pulled the lid off and went to grab a spoon from the drawer, barely listening to whatever it was the conversation had moved on to.

As they all ate, Martin told Tim about his newly granted use of the downstairs kitchen. Tim, ever the enthusiast, boldly declared that they should have lunch down there on Friday. Much to Jon's surprise, he found himself nodding along in agreement with the statement.

After lunch, Jon made his way to the Archives, planning to look over the documents Sasha had found regarding Bellants and Jane Prentiss. As he suited up, however, Sasha herself came up to him.

“Jon? Can I ask you something that may sound a bit weird?”

“We just found out that our colleague was held captive by worms for over a week in his own flat. Yes,” he said, setting the mask he'd grabbed aside.

“Is there anything else like... Prentiss and Hodges out there?” she asked.

He froze, unsure how to answer. “I... legally, I don't think I can answer that,” he choked out. He was getting tired of how often he had to dodge questions like that already.

She sighed. “I think that's answer enough for me. You don't have to say anything more, and I won't ask. I just... I want to keep everyone safe, and I don't know how to do that going with what I know now,” she explained. “Between you getting a mysterious promotion from Bouchard, and the whole _worm_ situation, I don't know who we can trust anymore.”

Jon sat down on the table, pulling his gloves off. “I don't either, in all honesty. There's a lot going on that I don't understand, even with what I know. This goes... well beyond us, is all I can say. Beyond all of us. We can only really keep ourselves safe through keeping our heads down, and when you work in the palaces on this continent... well, it's not exactly an option.”

“So it has to do with... the countries?”

He shook his head. “Not really. Again, I... can't explain really, but it's far bigger than us humans.”

Sasha looked at him, hard, for a long second. “I... alright. Should we pass off any documents that have to do with Bellants to you, then? On top of the documents regarding Tivermere?”

“Forget Tivermere for now. I'm a bit more concerned with the people I work with than Miss Herne, no offence meant to her.”

That got a small smile from Sasha, at least. She shook her head, letting out a soft huff of laughter. “Will do. If we find anything should we still put it in the Tivermere box, though?”

“No, just sort it as normal. I really can't... find it in me to be too concerned over something that's already come to pass. I'm more interested in what Prentiss and her ilk want with us.”

“Got it. I'll let you get to it, then. Thanks, Jon. For answering what you can, and for just... being there. You're pretty unshakable, you know?” she said, not waiting for a response before leaving.

Jon sighed, pulling his protective gear on once more. It was going to be a long afternoon, he thought, staring down the piles of folders and books set out on the tables and in boxes.

The day passed in a bit of a blur as he went through the Bellants box, reading over anything that seemed particularly relevant. Nothing was new information to him, at least as far as what the worms were, and what they did. He was able to confirm that Prentiss was able to use them as a way to watch over locations, though, which was a blessing and a half. He set that folder aside, planning on telling the others to double down on any worm-stomping that they were already doing.

It was as his workday came to a close that he found something new. It wasn't new in its base information – at least not to him and his personal knowledge of how the courts worked. It was, however, something that gave him pause... and a name to the power that watched over Bellants.

Jon read it carefully, taking everything in as thoroughly as he could.

The document spoke of the power that watched over Bellants, and how Jane Prentiss had been chosen for her role as the Hive-Queen. There had been a test she had had to go through, one that had killed many of its previous testers. She had had to stick her arm into a wasps nest, or so the document told, and to accept her role as a home to the beings that infected it. She had passed, apparently with glowing success, and had been given her title of Hive-Queen. It spoke of the God of Corruption, of Crawling Rot, of Filth. It spoke of the sweet song of love, and the belonging one would get by accepting it into their lives.

By the end of it, Jon felt rather nauseous. He didn't like how detailed the account had been of Jane Prentiss' feeling of worms overtaking her body, writhing and squirming through her skin. He carefully closed the folder, doing his best to keep his hands steady.

Standing on weak legs, he carefully brought the folder out of the Archives and to his office, tucking it alongside the documents he'd collected about Tivermere. The others didn't need to read that. They didn't need to be made aware of the things that loomed over them in such a sick, twisted way.

When Jon got home after locking the library up, he didn't speak much. Georgie didn't press him to explain why, after he'd told her about Martin's situation. She just told him to head to bed early, and he didn't have it in him to fight the suggestion.

* * *

A sticky, slick warmth filled his lungs when he breathed in. It wasn't that he was breathing anything in, but rather that the air itself was slick with heat, as if the world had a fever. He tried moving, but his limbs felt heavy and wouldn't cooperate. His eyes were closed. When had he closed his eyes? He tried opening them, but they refused as well, a thick layer of gunk built up along his lids gluing them shut.

He felt cold, all of a sudden. It was so warm, though, how could he be chilled? He shook where he lay, feeling the soft ground beneath him part slightly where his fingers pressed into it, welcoming him. But he didn't want the dirt. He did not want to be Buried. The ground stopped trying to welcome him, for the time being.

A drop of sweat dripped down his forehead. Why was he sweating? He was so cold, and it was so warm, there was no reason he should be sweating. Perhaps it was a fever. Perhaps _he_ had caught the fever that the world was so sick from. He did not want to be sick, though. He could not be sick, not here.

He could move once more.

This time, when he tried to open his eyes, they did so with ease. His arms could lift once more, and his legs could walk. And so he did. He walked, and he watched the scenery pass him by, pay him no mind.

The sky was a diseased yellow; a dull, stagnant colour that stretched into the horizon, into eternity, without change. Around him, piles of rotten food lay festering alongside decaying bodies that were infested with insects. No spiders, though. He was somehow certain that there would be no spiders found here. Perhaps once there may have been, long ago, but now? Now, the things that preyed on them have won, centipedes crawling in masses, while spider wasps and tarantula hawks surveyed the sky in droves.

He continued to walk.

A wet, squelching sound could be heard faintly in the distance, and his head swivelled to locate it. Immediately, he changed course, looking for the domain he Knew he would find at the source of it.

He paid no mind to the mould that tried to latch onto his shoes, nor the songs of the various hives and nests that were along his path. He did not pause when a man with a tattered, oversized brown suit began to follow him, curiously watching him as he strode along towards his destination.

Eventually, the man left, and he was alone once more.

The sound got louder and louder the further he walked, and he began to hear something new underneath it. Underneath the buzzing of the flies and the distant squelching, he heard something new. A sweet, gentle melody that buzzed and hummed in tandem with the surrounding cacophony. It was tantalizing, and for just a brief moment, he allowed himself to think about accepting it. He didn't, of course. He Knew what he belonged to, even if he did not remember its name in this place.

Reaching the source, he couldn't find it in him to be surprised at what he saw waiting for him.

A woman in a long, torn, red dress stood in the middle of a large clearing. She swayed slightly from side to side, along with the beat that poured from the hundreds of nests and hives that lined the clearing. A man sat nearby, but he paid him no mind. That man was nothing. He would be dead before the month's end.

As he approached, the woman lifted her head to look at him. Her long black hair hung around her face, filthy and matted, and her sickly grey skin stretched when she smiled at him, revealing a mouth of blackened, rotted teeth. Worms fell from the dozens, hundreds of holes that pockmarked her body as she raised an arm and pointed directly at him.

_“You,”_ she said. Her voice hissed, vowels drawn out as she grinned even wider, dislodging more worms from her face. _“Keep him. He will want to see it when the Archivist's crimson fate arrives.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm a day late, everyone! My birthday was on Friday, but my immediate family wasn't able to get together until Saturday, which took up most of the day... and then the day was over! So here we are a day late, but still going strong! 
> 
> The current full doc is up to 15 chapters and 158k words (and its only a quarter done,,,) so there's still much to look forward to!
> 
> Your comments always make my day when I read them (and I do read all of them!) so thank you all for the support so far!
> 
> As always, feel free to message me or send an ask on my tumblr @thearch1ve, and thanks immensely to my beta reader and editor @sol1loqu1st! See you all in 2 weeks!


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: discussion of nightmares, typical Prentiss/worms talk, typical distortion antics, worms (again), magical... chloroform? I guess???

Jon woke up a mess _._ Sitting up in bed, he pulled his knees to his chest and pressed his hands to his eyes. He did not want to be dealing with more of these dreams.

He tried to get up, to get ready for work, but he couldn't find it in him. His legs were weak and his hands shook with exhaustion as he tried to dig through his wardrobe for something to wear. It didn't help that he felt an... itch, below his skin. He was trying to ignore that fact.

After an hour trying and failing to leave his room, Georgie knocked on his door.

“Are you alright in there?” she called.

Jon tried to call back a response, anything at all, but all that came out was a hoarse croak. Georgie took that as a sign to come in, at least, and let out a low whistle when she saw him.

“You look like hell. I'm going to get you some water, and then you're gonna explain what's been happening with you lately that's leaving you in a state like this,” she said before turning away and heading to the kitchen.

Jon heard the tap running for a moment, then her steps approaching once more. He took the glass she offered him gratefully, drinking about half of it in one shot.

“So,” she said, sitting down at the foot of his bed, “what is it that's been screwing you up this badly?”

He cleared his throat before trying to speak. “It... it's a bit of a long story,” he said, voice sounding strained and cracked.

“I've got time.”

“I may not. I don't actually know if my assistants will come looking for me if I don't let them know that I'm alive or not.”

“Then give me a quick version of it. What _exactly_ is it that's got you so messed up? No backstory, just the thing or things themselves.”

He sighed. “I've been having these... dreams? Maybe calling them nightmares would be more accurate, but they're not frightening. At least I don't think they are?”

“I mean, I'd say that if they're not scaring you then they're not nightmares.”

“Normally, I'd agree, but there's something different about these. They feel like they _should_ be scaring me, but they're not. That I'm just immune to the fear in them, somehow.”

Georgie hummed. “What are they about, usually?”

“That's the thing: to actually explain that, you'd have to know about the details of just about everything I've been researching the last few weeks,” Jon grumbled. “I'm not sure how to summarize it other than I've been doing research into Tivermere on behalf of someone who asked for information, and she's been showing up in my nightmares every few nights.”

“Normally I'd make a quip about finding your dream girl, but I don't think that it would actually apply here.”

“It wouldn't. Either way, it's been the same dream pretty consistently since she came into the library to add her account to our files,” he explains, sitting up properly. “It starts off with a very empty plains. The sky is a plain, monotone grey, and there is nothing alive. I walk and walk until I reach a tree line, and then until I find a graveyard that is completely empty. No bodies in the ground. And there she is, every night. It almost... it almost feels like I'm watching her have a nightmare, rather than having one myself.

“I'd gotten used to it for the most part. Last night was... different, though.”

Georgie watched him with a solemn expression. “It was about... the thing that held Martin hostage, wasn't it?” she asked, though there was a degree of certainty in her voice Jon could have laughed at if it didn't fill him with a deep dread.

He nodded. “It was so much worse than the other,” he whispered. “Prentiss, she was there. I saw her. And she-” He took a long, shaky breath before continuing. “She said to me: _Keep him. He will want to see it when the Archivist's crimson fate arrives._ ”

She shuddered at that. “What does it mean?”

“I don't know. I don't think I like it, though, whatever it is.”

They sat in silence for a long few minutes, just taking in what he had said.

Jon didn't like thinking about his dreams. They felt wrong in the same way that Elias asking him questions did, usually. Talking about them was worse, though, that he was absolutely certain of. However wrong thinking about them felt, talking about them felt _dangerous_ in ways he didn't have the words to explain.

A thought crossed his mind, then, and he couldn't help the shudder that passed through him as he had it.

“Georgie,” he said, voice barely even a whisper. “What if the Watcher has claimed me?”

“I don't know,” she responded, voice just as soft.

“Right...”

The silence that followed was heavy, and Jon had a slight regret that he had even mentioned it. Of course she wouldn't know what would happen if that were the case. No one he knew would. Out of everyone that he knew, he was the only one – aside perhaps Martin, now – that had had such close encounters with the Dread Gods that watched over the countries.

A knock at the front door broke the silence like a hammer. Jon jumped, yanking his blankets up around his shoulders, while Georgie's head whipped around towards the source of the sound.

“I'm going to go check who it is,” she announced, standing with a clear purpose, no fear evident in any of her movements.

“Be careful, we don't know if Prentiss or Hodges still wants anything with-” he started. Georgie cut him off firmly with a single raised hand.

“I know. That's why _I'm_ going to check, and not you,” she said, and with that, left the room. Whatever it was _that_ meant could wait, he supposed.

Jon knew it couldn't have been longer than a few seconds, but he held his breath as time slowed to a crawl. The faint sound of the door opening was followed by a small exclamation, though it didn't seem to be one of fear. A few moments later the sound of the door closing filtered through the house, and Jon waited, unmoving, for Georgie to return.

“You've got visitors!” she called out as the sound of her footsteps came down the hall. She poked her head into his room. “C'mon and get dressed. You don't have to get ready for work, just put some proper clothes on and come out.”

“I- right, okay,” he said, breath leaving him in a rush.

She closed the door, and he slowly dragged himself out of bed. It was a long, slow process getting dressed. The buttons on his shirt kept slipping, leading to him cursing under his breath and leaving the last few undone, professionalism be damned. He didn't bother tucking his shirt in, opting to just throw on a loose cardigan over it all instead.

When he opened his bedroom door, several voices drifted from the living room, a low murmuring drone that made the individual voices indistinguishable to his ears. Even with the lack of distinction, Jon was fairly certain of what he'd see when he walked in.

He was right, of course, in his assumption that the voices belonged to his assistants. Tim and Sasha sat on the couch on either side of Georgie, while Martin was in one of the armchairs. Jon padded in, trying very hard to not draw attention to himself as he took a seat in his own armchair.

“I see you all decided that you're taking the day off,” he quipped once he grew tired of watching them all try very hard to not notice him.

“Well, you weren't in, and after yesterday...” Sasha trailed off, glancing over at Martin.

“We wanted to make sure you weren't being held captive by some weird worm monster,” Tim said, his wide grin not quite reaching his eyes.

“As you can see, I'm not. I figured that much would have been obvious by Georgie answering the door.”

“Oh, lighten up, Jon. I haven't gotten a chance to meet your coworkers before, and you want to try and deny me it even now?” Georgie laughed, smiling easily at the three strangers in her flat.

Jon rolled his eyes. “You know that's not...” he mumbled, curling up in his chair. “It's fine. Never mind.”

Georgie frowned at him. “I know, Jon. But isolating yourself and drawing away from the people who care isn't going to help. It didn't back home, and it won't now.”

He sighed. “I know. Anyways, what were you all doing before I came and... well, ruined the mood.”

“You didn't ruin the mood, but Georgie here was telling us about the Admiral. I didn't know you were a cat person, Jon!” Sasha explained, pure glee all over her face. “Where is the little rascal anyways?”

“He's probably going to be out soon. Jon's always been his favourite, and-” Georgie's eyes grew wide as she cut herself off. “Jon, try sleeping with the Admiral in your room tonight!”

“What? Why?”

She paused, looking at the others who all watched on with a sort of cautious curiosity. “It... Well, I figured it may help. With, uh, what you were telling me about earlier?”

Jon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I suppose it could, but...” he petered off, noticing the concerned looks that he was getting from his assistants. “I suppose I owe a bit of an explanation, so everyone here is on the same page.”

“I mean, it'd be nice? Obviously you don't _have_ to, since it seems like it's kinda sensitive, but... a bit of context would be helpful, yeah,” Martin said, wincing slightly as he finished.

He waved the concern off. “It's fine, I-” Jon grimaced a bit. “It's not that I don't mind, but I figure it's the least I can do since you all came here to check on me.”

Everyone took this as a cue to settle into their seats a bit more. Sasha pulled her feet up and tucked them under her as she leaned against the arm of the sofa, and Tim leaned back, stretching one arm across the back of it.

“I'll grab tea, since I've already heard this,” Georgie said, pushing herself to her feet. She gave Jon a pat on the shoulder as she passed, and he covered her hand with his until she withdrew it.

And so he explained to the others about the dreams. About when they started, what they'd been, and what they'd been doing to him, physically and emotionally. He also told them about the dream he'd had the night prior, and the words Jane Prentiss had said to him. By the time he finished, all of them had varying degrees of horror, concern, and nausea playing on their faces.

Sasha was the first one to break the heavy silence that had fallen when Jon finished speaking. “What... What does 'the Archivist's crimson fate' mean?” she asked, eyes dull and distant.

Jon shook his head. “I don't know, but I don't think I like it.”

The silence fell once more, and it was nearly deafening.

“Well, fuck that.”

Jon's head whipped around to look at Martin, blinking in confusion at him.

“Fuck that,” he repeated, staring right at Jon. “We're _not_ going to let her win. Elias can go to hell if he's not going to help, as well.”

Tim started to grin a bit as Martin spoke, and Sasha had her signature mischievous glint in her eyes again. Martin pointed at the two of them. “We double down on searching through the documents about Bellants,” he said. Turning to point at Jon, he continued. “You fit the pieces we find together, and do whatever it is Elias wants you to do when you're working with him.”

Jon found himself nodding along, sitting a bit straighter in his seat.

“Today, though, I think we all deserve a bit of a break. Jon, you've been dealing with these nightmares, I just spent the first night in nearly two weeks sleeping without the threat of worms, and Tim and Sasha have been keeping the main library running almost solo while this all has been happening,” he finished, hands resting in his lap once again.

Blinking his stunned confusion away, Jon nodded. “Right, I think that... that probably is a solid plan. Today we can rest, and tomorrow... we start with all of that,” he said, finally picking up the tea that Georgie had brought in shortly after he'd started telling his assistants about the dreams. The cup was cold in his hands, and he only took a drink from it on instinct.

Tim laughed at the face Jon made, and suddenly, it felt like they could all breathe again.

It was weird, having all these people in his living space. Georgie brought out some board games and a deck of cards at some point, and Jon didn't even have to think about joining in. He joked with the rest of them, shouted at Tim for blatantly cheating at crazy 8s with the rest of them, and felt more at ease than he had since arriving in Avonrey.

Evening rolled around much faster than he'd expected, and with it came the wondering of whether or not it was time for everyone to head home.

“We wouldn't want to put you two out for dinner or anything,” Sasha tried to argue, but was sent back to the couch with a signature scathing glare from Jon.

Georgie laughed, patting her on the shoulder as she looked confusedly at her. As Jon walked away, he heard Georgie say, “I think he just misses cooking for a lot of people,” with no small amount of fondness in her voice.

He busied himself in the kitchen, then, listening to the gentle chatter from the other room. The motions came to him almost without thought as he prepared dinner. It wasn't anything fancy, just a shepherd's pie with a twist – he always joked to Georgie that the twist was that it actually had flavour and spices. When he put it into the oven, he didn't leave the kitchen.

Jon sat at the kitchen table, holding his cup of cold tea, and just took a few minutes to himself. Just to breathe, and to reset. He did enjoy having everyone around, having people over for dinner after a day of goofing off and messing around. It was also a lot, at times.

With more people came more noise, and noise wasn't something he handled very well. Right in that moment, though, it was calm. There was chatter from the living room, the occasional laugh bubbling up from the din, and the soft ticking of the oven timer on the counter. All in all, he was... content.

And it scared him.

It scared him because he knew what lurked just beyond most of them, what was behind the dreams he'd told them all about, and what was likely behind him even having them in the first place. It scared him because he had something to lose, now, which was something he hadn't had, when he'd left Warcona. He didn't want to lose the people he had, but if Annabelle had been right in what she'd said to him the night before his leaving, he didn't have any say in the matter.

So he took the little moments he was having as they happened. Each one made it so much worse, the fear he felt, the desperation that was clawing at his chest, but he wouldn't ignore them. He knew that these moments were worth the fear he felt, because he knew that it just made him fight that much harder to have more of them in the future.

When the timer on the counter went off, he pulled the dish out of the oven, and went about setting the dining room table. He and Georgie didn't use it much, both preferring the small table that she'd set up in the kitchen over the large, ornate thing in the adjoining room.

With the table set, he called out to the others, letting them know that the food was ready and that the table was set.

“You didn't have to set the table on your own, you know that, right?” Georgie asked, a teasing grin on her face as she took the seat at the head of the table.

He shrugged. “I know. I wanted to, though.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Right. Do you know if we have any wine left?”

“Nope. You finished it last week, after getting news that the next book in that series you love so much was being delayed again,” he teased, taking the seat to the right of her.

She swatted at him, and he dodged, laughing.

The conversation shifted to the food, then, and Georgie batted Jon away from trying to serve everyone like he'd stood up to do.

It was still strange, having his coworkers in his home. He knew that Sasha had called him a friend, before, but he wasn't sure that the others would consider him the same. Martin was certainly giving him a plethora of odd looks that he couldn't quite name. He was more sure about Tim, though, and figured that he would be fine with the label of “friend”. He seemed to be everyone's friend, somehow.

The Admiral finally made an appearance while they ate, and Sasha practically melted when she saw him. He tried his best to climb up Jon's leg and get onto his lap, but Jon kept setting him back down on the floor each time he tried. The others all protested, of course, and Jon eventually caved, picking the fluffy mass of a cat up and setting him onto his lap.

The Admiral became the star of the show, then, as he sat down on his haunches, resting his front paws on the edge of the table, perfectly framed by Jon's arms. It certainly made finishing his meal _much_ more difficult, but he didn't have many complaints. The Admiral lifted his head and tried to sniff at Jon's fork every time he raised it, causing a round of snickers the first few times it happened.

Jon was sent to the living room by Georgie under the insistence that he rest while she tidied up. At first, he was worried that without a buffer he was going to make everyone uncomfortable, but that was quickly dispelled.

The Admiral trotted after him as he went, and became the topic of conversation almost instantly. Jon told them about the little monster, and the shared custody agreement he'd had with Georgie when they were kids. Of course, this was back before he was an actual cat, and simply a plush toy that they both adored. The cat itself was a rather new addition to his life, being four or five years old, rather than fourteen or more.

As the evening came to a close, with Tim, Sasha, and Martin all agreeing that they should head home, Jon walked them to the door. Georgie was back in the kitchen, having come out to say her goodbyes briefly, telling them they were all welcome any time, and it was just Jon seeing them off.

He rocked awkwardly back and forth on his toes. “That was... nice,” he said, unsure if that was the right thing to say.

Tim beamed at him, clapping him on the shoulder. “I think I've gotta agree, considering we came over here expecting you to have been eaten by a worm monster!”

“Yeah, it was nice being able to see you outside of work,” Sasha added, her own smile warm and welcoming.

Jon nodded. “It was. I... as Georgie said, you're all welcome whenever. I may not always be the most sociable, but I know that the Admiral always wants more attention.”

“That cat really loves you, doesn't he?” Martin laughed, still giving him that odd sort of look he'd been giving him all day.

“He does. Georgie's still jealous that I'm his favourite,” Jon chuckled, shaking his head. “Tomorrow it's back to work, I guess...”

“Yeah,” Tim sighed. “Oh, before we go, one more thing.”

Jon tilted his head curiously, raising an eyebrow to urge him to go on.

“Let us know if it was a rough night when you come into work. Not just tomorrow, but in the future as well. We've got your back, boss.”

He blinked up at Tim as he waved goodbye, opening the front door and stepping out into the stairwell. Sasha followed, giving her own little goodbye wave, and telling Martin that she'll walk him back to the palace if he'd like.

Martin agreed readily enough, but lingered in the doorway as he pulled his gloves on. “Today was really nice, Jon,” he said, and Jon thought he saw a bit of sadness behind the smile he gave him. “Maybe once I get my own flat again, I'll have everyone over there for dinner to celebrate.”

“I think I'd enjoy that,” Jon found himself saying, surprising himself by how readily he accepted that it wasn't a lie. “Stay safe.”

Martin nodded, pausing for just a moment. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it, shaking his head instead. “I will,” he said, and then he left, and Jon was alone.

Back in the kitchen, Georgie had finished cleaning up, and was playing with the Admiral on the living room floor. A few cards were still laying about from where they'd been thrown or discarded earlier in the day, and Jon picked them up as he walked by.

“How are you feeling?” she asked as he wandered over.

He took a seat next to her on the floor, dangling a card over the Admiral, who batted at it with fluffy paws. “Weird,” he said.

“Good weird or bad weird?”

“Honestly? I don't know. I think good weird. I liked today, at least.”

“I'm glad to hear that! I hope they come over more often; your coworkers are all incredibly pretty, you know that, right?”

Jon smiled at that, shaking his head. “So I've heard.”

“Oh c'mon, you know I'm right,” she paused, giving him a scrutinizing look. “You sure you're alright, Jon? You look a bit... absent.”

“I'm fine. I'm just a bit drained after everything today. It was fun, but now I just find that I'm even more worried about all of them being caught up in... all of this,” he muttered, letting his hand drop down to pet the Admiral. The fluffy beast of a cat immediately started purring, rubbing his face into Jon's hand affectionately.

Georgie sighed. “Yeah, they're all really nice, aren't they? Too nice to get caught up in this mess.”

“I... Georgie, can I ask you something?”

“I mean, you already are, but go ahead.”

He shoved at her lightly, shoulders bumping. “Come off it, you know what I meant,” he laughed. With a sigh, he continued. “How is it you know as much as you do about all of this? I-I thought that this was all... I thought it was restricted knowledge to the court nobles.”

“It is. I didn't get involved with any of them, if that's what you're wondering. I just... I'll tell you, eventually. Just know that I've got your back, and if you need any advice that has to do with any of it, I'm probably able to help, alright?” she answered. She avoided meeting his eyes as she said it, however, guilt evident on her face.

He hesitated for a moment, tempted to push, to learn why she knew _now_ , but he stopped himself. He didn't want to burn this bridge. Not now, and hopefully not ever. Georgie was his longest and best friend, and he wasn't about to invade her privacy just because he was a curious bastard.

“Alright,” he said, “I'll leave it for now. But I do hope you'll explain sometime soon?”

She shrugged. “Depends. I will tell you, I promise that, but it'll be when I'm ready to talk about it.”

Jon nodded, understanding. She'd had some sort of encounter, that much was clear, but he had no idea what it was with. It didn't matter, he told himself. It didn't matter, because she was here, and she was safe, and they could figure out things as they went.

“I think I'm going to turn in early, tonight,” he yawned, getting to his feet. He stretched out, and a series of pops and cracks came from his back.

Georgie grimaced at the sounds, but laughed nonetheless. “Yeah, go on ahead. Bring the little bastard here with you?” she asked, poking at the Admiral. He swiped at her hand as she tried to poke his belly, rolling slightly as he attempted to catch her.

Jon didn't answer. He simply reached down and lifted the Admiral into his arms, cradling him like a baby close to his chest. Right as he was picked up, the Admiral started to purr. He tried to headbutt Jon's chin once he was properly situated, and Jon didn't fight as a rough, pink tongue licked at his jaw.

“He really did take to you, didn't he?” Georgie said, fondly.

“He did. I have no idea why that would be, but here we are, huh?”

“I think it's because you're so much alike. Very picky on your company, like attention on your own time, are small and easy to pick up...” she listed off on her fingers, laughing when Jon shot her a glare at the last point. “In any case, I hope he helps with the nightmares. He usually tries his hardest to wake me up from them when I have them, myself.”

Jon hummed, looking down at the fluffy grey cat in his arms. Big blue eyes stared up at him, blinking slowly. Jon blinked back, just as slow, and the Admiral purred even louder, somehow.

Georgie wished him a goodnight as he padded down the hall to his room, and he called back one of his own.

Once in his room, he closed the door and set the Admiral down. The cat immediately trotted over to Jon's bed, hopping up onto it and then onto the windowsill next to it. Jon closed the curtains, having to readjust them a few times as the Admiral pushed them open to look outside repeatedly. He gave up at one point, opting to just close them around the back of the cat.

Carefully, he shrugged off his cardigan, folding it up and laying it on the desk chair he barely used. Unbuttoning his shirt came far easier than doing it up, and he tossed it into the laundry basket at the foot of his bed. He debated leaving the modified chemise he'd put on earlier on, weighing the pros and cons of digging through his drawers for a fresh nightshirt.

In the end, he decided that he'd rather not get an earful from Georgie if she found out he'd slept in it, and used the last of his energy to change properly into pyjamas.

He dreamt, as usual, but they weren't horrible dreams of watching others nightmares for once. They simply were of his friends, his work, and the Admiral. It was the first restful night he'd had in a while.

* * *

The week ended calmly. Jon kept out of the Archives, being shooed away every time he tried to go look for some document or another. He didn't blame them for trying to keep him out, but it was a bit more than frustrating at times. He kept taking his lunch breaks with them, though, even into the next week.

The first real disruption that came to the routine they'd started was the Tuesday after Martin's return to work. Elias came down to the library, looking for Jon.

The knock on his office door was what alerted him that something was different. By now, the others had stopped knocking, opting to just yell at him through the door, or peek their heads in to ask him whatever it was they needed.

“Come in,” Jon said, closing the drawer of his desk that he'd started hiding the Tivermere documents in. It housed a couple of documents regarding Bellants as well, mostly ones relating to things higher up on the ladder of the court.

The door opened, and Elias stepped in. “Hello, Jon. I was hoping that you'd be able to come to my office after lunch, so that we can go over the documents that we need to before you start your training,” he said, not bothering to close the door behind him as he wandered over to Jon's desk.

“Of course. Was that all?” Jon asked, already growing tired of Elias' presence.

“Not quite. May I ask why it was that last week there was an unscheduled closure of the library?”

Jon sighed. “I came down with a cold, and was absent. Due to the fact that it was the day after Martin returned after a week and a half of being held captive in his own flat by worms, they were all admittedly worried about me, and came by to check in. My flatmate invited them to stay for dinner, and they did,” he explained. It wasn't a complete lie, which he hoped was enough for Elias and his lie-detector senses.

Elias hummed. “I see. I ask simply because I worry, is all. In the future, I'd appreciate it if at least one person came by to explain that there's going to be a closure, if it happens again?”

“I understand. I'll be sure to let the others know of that.”

“Excellent. I'll be seeing you then. Next week, same time, my personal library. Remember that,” he said, turning around and heading back out of Jon's office.

Sighing, Jon rubbed at his temples. He was going to regret agreeing to this, wasn't he? He could already barely stand to be around Elias for more than five minutes, and he agreed to spend his entire afternoons with him?

Trying to put the entire encounter behind him, Jon returned to his work.

When lunch came around, he was _desperate_ for it to not end, and his coworkers could tell. Tim was trying not to laugh as Jon grimaced at the clock that was very firmly telling them that they were five minutes over their break.

“Good luck, boss,” he said, biting his lip hard enough that Jon swore that he was going to make it bleed.

“I'm going to need it. Why the hell is he so...” Jon said, gesturing with his hands as he tried to find the right words.

“Pompous? Irritating? Stuck up? Self absorbed?” Sasha offered helpfully, grinning at him from the doorway.

“Cryptic, perhaps? Maybe a bit spooky?” Martin laughed, which broke Tim's resolve as he also devolved into a fit of laughter.

“Yes. To absolutely all of it. The man manages to get on every single one of my nerves, including ones I didn't even know existed,” Jon grumbled, pulling on his sweater. He'd started wearing slightly more comfortable clothes into work over the last few days, and was thoroughly enjoying it. It made it easier to get away with just wearing the chemise that Georgie had made for him, instead of having to take the time to bind his chest in the mornings.

With another round of well-wishes, Jon left the break room, heading up to Elias' office with no small amount of dread and regret weighing heavy in his stomach.

He knocked on the door, hearing a faint “come in” from the other side. Taking a brief moment to steel himself, he did so, gently swinging the door inwards.

Elias was sat behind his desk, reading over a sheet of parchment. His pen was off to the side, and his inkwell was open, which Jon figured meant he'd been writing before he'd gotten there.

What followed had to have been the driest, most irritating afternoon of his life. Even more so than when he'd first signed his contract with the palace, Jon felt like the legal jargon was being said explicitly to confuse and annoy him. He asked a few questions that Elias answered readily enough, mostly regarding salary, raises, and schedule changes. Other than that, it was all the same legal talk that Jon had heard the first time he'd signed a contract under Elias. He was deeply relieved when Elias dismissed him, saying that if anything else came up, he would let Jon know, and that he was sorry that he had had to go over all of “this nonsense” again.

Jon was out of there as fast as he could be, making a bee-line straight for his own office. He was so focused on getting away from Elias and into his small corner of the palace, that he nearly ran into Sasha on his way down.

“Jon! I was just looking for you,” she said, reaching out for his arm, but pulling back at the last moment.

“Office first,” he said, gesturing for her to follow him.

Once tucked away, Jon all but collapsed into his seat, resting his head on his arms for a moment. Taking a deep breath, he sat up once more and looked at Sasha, who had taken a seat opposite to him.

“What is it?” he asked, exhaustion weighing him down.

“I just was going to let you know I'm going to be doing a bit of field work tomorrow. I'll be doing a follow up interview with someone from the documents. I _did_ make sure they were still alive first,” she said. Her face pinched in concern. “Are you alright? You look absolutely dreadful.”

“Elias is the most draining person to speak to that I've ever encountered, and I've had to deal with high court officials gossiping at parties for _years_ ,” he said, simply.

“Ah, yeah, that makes sense. So, is it alright if I do the field work?”

Jon nodded. “Yes, of course. Be safe, though, and carry something as defence? Matches and some lighter fluid, or a knife, or something. I'm not sure what all would work as defence, but... bringing anything will give me some peace of mind,” he said, leaning back down to rest his forehead against the cool wood of his desk.

“Sounds like a plan. I'll... let you get some rest, I guess?”

He hummed, not having the energy to try and form words. There was a soft, amused huff from Sasha, followed by the sound of her chair scraping against the floor. Jon barely registered the soft sound of the door opening then shutting as he drifted off at his desk for the first time in ages.

The next morning the sound of his office door slamming open was what woke him. He startled, jolting in his chair and nearly falling off of it in panicked confusion. Head whipping towards the door, he saw Sasha standing there once more. He blinked at her, trying to clear his head of the fog of sleep that still tried to cling to it. When he saw the blood on her shoulder, though, he was wide awake, suddenly.

“What happened?” he asked, sitting up and gesturing for her to take the seat that she'd been sitting in the previous day.

“Jon, did you sleep here?” she asked, moving to sit down.

“It... wasn't intentional. Apparently the meeting with Elias took more out of me than I thought it did. I didn't dream, though, so I can't complain too much,” he yawned, stretching out his back with a chorus of pops as he did so. “You're bleeding, Sasha, what happened?”

She took a deep breath, and stared steadily at him. “You're going to want to write this down, I think.”

Without even thinking about it, Jon pulled out a fresh stack of parchment and his pen and ink. He readied his pen as she began to speak.

“So, I mentioned yesterday that I was going to do some field work today, right? Well, I did. It... it went about as well as I thought it would, quite honestly,” she began, looking a bit guilty. “You see, I've been... well, I should start at the beginning.

“About three weeks ago, I saw a strange figure outside of one of the windows in my flat. It was tall, easily six and a half feet, and it had limbs like cooked pasta. It was all stringy, lanky, arms and legs bending at odd angles. The most startling part of it were its hands, though. They were stretched and inflated 'til they were almost the same size as it's torso, and the fingers were long and stiff, ending in sharp points. As I watched it, I had the unnerving sensation that it knew I was there, watching it, somehow, and was watching me back.

“When I opened the window to look at it properly, though, all I saw was a man. He was tall, with straw blond hair that sat in loose curls around his shoulders, and was completely unremarkable other than his height. He was staring at the display of flowers that the shop across the street from my flat sells, not even looking at me. I feel like it's important to tell you as well that the windows of my flat are a bit warped, a bit of a wavy pattern going through the glass that helps with privacy.

“I closed my window, and there was the figure again, right where he'd been standing with it open. Opening it again, I watched him for a few minutes, wondering what this thing that looked to be human was. Eventually, he bought a bouquet of lilies and left. I went downstairs and asked the shopkeeper if she'd seen a tall, blond man here a few minutes ago. She told me: yes, she had, and did I want to buy any flowers? I didn't, of course, and she didn't seem particularly able to help any further. I figured that would be the last of it, and did my best to forget about the whole encounter.

“It wasn't of course. Last week, the day before Martin came back, I saw him again. He was sat in a coffee shop a few blocks away from here, staring into a steaming cup. It had been raining that morning, and I caught a glimpse of him in one of the puddles outside. There it was. That strange figure that I'd seen through the warped glass of my flat's windows. Now, I'm not an idiot. I didn't want to just... walk up to this thing and start demanding it explain itself, tell me what it was, but I was tempted to. I also was running a bit late for work, that day, though, so I decided that... if I saw it again, I'd talk to it. Ask it... something. What was it that they say? Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action?

“Well, I saw it again that evening. When I passed by the cafe again that evening, I noticed that the lights were still on, even though it should have been _long_ since closed for the day. There it was, still sat at the same spot it had been earlier, but this time it looked at me, gesturing for me to come in and take a seat.

“I did. I don't know why I did, quite frankly. You know me, Jon, I'm not exactly the bravest person in the world. I generally avoid horror, and you'd be hard pressed to get me on anything much faster than the train. Which is why I was so surprised that this sinister being wasn't causing me as much distress as it should have as I sat down across from it.

“I think it had been sat there all day, from the look of the coffee cup in front of it. Him? I just realized that... I don't actually know what pronouns he... it, uses. Anyways, I sat down across from... him, and waited.

“He seemed to be waiting as well, probably for me to ask something, so I did. I asked him what he was, and what did he want from me? He laughed at that, and the sound made my head hurt a bit. It was like he was laughing very far away, but the volume was turned up. He said that what he was didn't matter, that he didn't have the words even if he could describe it. Oh, what was the phrase he used... _how would a melody describe itself_?

“Anyways, I got a bit defensive then, told him that I wasn't going to sit around and listen to cheap riddles, and that if he wanted to talk to me, then he was going to have to be a bit more straightforward. He actually apologized. Told me to call him Michael. I didn't want to call him that, quite honestly. It didn't feel... right. It wasn't like I had anything else to go by, though.

“He stayed sat there, though, waiting for me to ask another question. So I did. I asked him what it was he wanted. He told me... he said that he wanted to help. I asked him with what, stopping Prentiss? He just laughed that weird laugh again, telling me that I had no idea what was actually going on. He put his hand on mine, then and stared me right in the eyes as he said that... if I wanted to save your life, I'd meet him at Hanwell Cemetery in one week.”

“Wait, my life?” Jon asked, hand pausing for just a second.

Sasha nodded. “It called you by name. You, and Martin, and Tim.”

Jon blinked, shaking his head. “Right... and that's where you were this morning?” he asked, prompting her to continue.

“That's right. It was dark when I got there. He never gave a time, so I figured that I'd get there early and wait as long as I needed to for him to show up. Even brought a lunch. Turns out, I didn't need to wait. He was already there when I showed up, standing at the gates to the cemetery. As I approached, he gestured for me to follow him, and started walking towards an old, abandoned building a little ways down the road.

“The door was hanging off its hinges, but Michael pushed it open anyways, walking straight into the dark building without a second thought. I hesitated. I hadn't thought to bring a torch with me, but I did bring matches like you'd suggested. I lit one, and followed him inside.

“It looked to be an abandoned pub. The floor and ceiling rotted and smelling of mildew and mould. The counter seemed to be in good condition, however, and Michael stood next to it with an unreadable expression on his face. On the top was a first aid kit, and a fire extinguisher. I was confused as I approached, and Michael held up a torch that I was fairly certain he hadn't been holding before. I turned it on, and as the light flooded the room, I turned to take it all in.

“In the far corner was... I don't know what it was originally, quite honestly, but whatever it was, it was long dead, and it was _covered_ in those silver worms. I gasped. Considering the circumstances, I'd say I was pretty composed. It was enough, though, for the worms to notice me. All at once, the mass stilled, then shifted, coming towards me with alarming speed.

“I panicked, backing up as much as I could, but it wasn't helping. I looked to Michael, waiting to see what he was going to do, but he stood there perfectly still, that same unreadable expression on his face.

“I didn't know what to do, so I did the first thing that came into my mind. I grabbed the fire extinguisher, pulled the pin, and squeezed the handle. Thick, white foam came out of it, covering the worms, stopping them in their tracks as they approached. It was killing them, I noticed, and I doubled down on my efforts. I sprayed and sprayed, walking slowly towards the pulsing mass they were coming from, and by the time I was done... none were left. I took a moment to breathe, my head light from the CO2.

“That's when I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder. I turned to look, and there was Michael, reaching _into_ my shoulder, his long, sharp fingers pinching something and withdrawing as fast as they'd gone in. In between them was a single silver worm.

“The mass was a nest, I think. Or a hive. I really couldn't tell much under the thick coating of spray that I'd unloaded on it. Once I was able to think a bit clearer, I asked who the hell Michael even was.

“He said it didn't matter, just like before, and then he left. Through a bright yellow door that hadn't been there a moment before, and was gone the moment I blinked. After that, I came right here, hoping to catch you before work started,” she finished, letting out a long, shaky exhale.

Jon stared at her, eyes wide as he processed what she had said. He pushed the papers aside, planning on putting them with the other documents he refused to file. “Are you absolutely certain that it was a yellow door?” he asked, choosing his words carefully.

Sasha nodded. “It was pale yellow, and it wasn't there,” she confirmed, far more steady than he was. “So, what do you think?”

Jon took a shaky breath in, letting it out through his nose. “I need you to be... as calm as you can be when I tell you this,” he said, staring at her. “But... I believe you had an encounter with the Distortion-King of Irrider, judging by... well, all of it, but the door is the biggest giveaway, in my opinion.”

“Hang on. Distortion- _King_? That was-” her face paled as the realization came over her. “Oh god, I spoke down to royalty,” she breathed out.

“I would hardly worry about that. Everything I know about Irrider is... well, it admittedly isn't much, but the information I have stresses that the Distortion-King is rather relaxed about formality,” he explains. “But, yes, you did have an encounter with what I believe was one of the Irridian royalty.”

“So... what now? He said he wanted to help, does this mean...”

“For now we can use the knowledge you got today to implement some more safety precautions around the palace. I'll ask Elias about getting more fire extinguishers, see if there's anything more... widespread we can do with the knowledge that CO2 harms the worms...” Jon muttered, rubbing his eyes. “What time is it, anyways?”

Sasha shrugged. “Probably half seven? Pretty early still.”

He groaned, stretching out and standing up. “Georgie's going to kill me... I'm going to head home to let her know I'm still alive, and also get changed. Think you could cover until I get back?”

She nodded. “No worries. Should I let Martin know to have tea ready for when you get back, if he gets here before you?”

“I'd appreciate that, yes. Thank you, Sasha. I'll be back in a little while,” Jon said, pulling his jacket on and heading out, back home.

Georgie did curse him out for sleeping at the office, as expected. Once he got changed into fresh clothes, she made him sit down and eat breakfast before going back in. By the time he was finally back to work, it was just a little past nine. Not horribly late, he figured, but still later than he was used to.

The day was a bit of a blur. Jon was still disoriented from having slept in his office for the first time in a couple of months, and starting work late that morning had thrown him off even more.

Evening rolled around, and Jon was the last one in the library. He told the others to go on ahead, and that he just needed to reshelve some books he'd been using as reference material. It was as he was doing this, however, that he heard a strange sound from somewhere deeper in the library.

He froze, hand gripped tightly around the book he'd been placing back on its shelf. There shouldn't have been anyone else around. Shaking his head, he slid the book into its proper place. It was likely just one of his assistants coming back to retrieve something they'd forgotten.

When the sound came again, though, he decided it was wiser to check on it, just to be safe.

He went deeper into the stacks, pausing occasionally to listen for more sounds. Slowly, he got closer and closer, barely breathing as he heard the sound come from the other side of one of the shelves.

Peering around the corner, he saw a man he didn't recognize. He was tall, with long black hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a five o'clock shadow on his face. A long, black leather overcoat hung loosely on his shoulders as he looked at the shelves, seemingly searching for something.

Jon remembered, then, that Tim had mentioned books disappearing occasionally, only to find their way back to the check-in cart a few days later, with no sign of who or what was moving them around. Apparently, he'd found the cause.

The man pulled one of the books off of the shelf, and tucked it into his coat before turning around. Jon tried to duck back behind the shelf and out of sight, but judging by the sudden stillness and silence he heard, he had been caught.

A long, tense second passed, then, where neither of them moved. Jon was fighting to keep his breath slow and steady against the panic that was rising in his chest.

“You know I saw you, right?” the man said, his voice somehow both higher and lower than Jon had expected.

Guiltily, Jon stepped out from behind the shelf, hands clenching and nails digging into his palms as he looked up at the other man.

“So, gonna report me to your boss?” he said, staring Jon down with both apprehension and mild disgust.

“What? No, I... why would I do that?” Jon asked, startled out of his nervousness. “Why the hell would Elias need to know about this?”

The man faltered, confusion pulling his face in. “Elias is running the library now? I thought he was the Seer-King. Why the hell would he be running this mess?”

“He is. I'm the head of the library, though. Have been for... coming up on half a year fairly soon, I believe. Why would I report you for... borrowing books?” Jon asked. “I mean, obviously I'd prefer if you checked them out _properly_ , but I'm not going to complain too much since you return everything in good condition.”

“... You weren't supposed to be able to find me.”

“Well, that kind of didn't work out very well for you, did it?”

He sighed, running a hand down his face. “Right, well, sorry about this.”

Jon took a step back as the man reached into his jacket and pulled out a small container. He opened it, and after a few seconds, Jon realized that the man was holding his breath.

“What is-” he started to ask, but was cut off by a sudden wave of dizziness that sent him stumbling back. He braced himself on the shelf as the man twisted the top back on the container and let his breath out.

“Again, sorry about this. You can't know about me, though. Too dangerous for both of us,” he said.

Jon's world spun, and the last thing he processed as the edges of his vision grew dark was the man sighing and muttering something about Jon being “an unfortunate pawn in a game” he didn't understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually cried over the Admiral in this chapter, so that's something. Another statement chapter! We're really getting into some interesting plot stuff that sets the pace for the second arc of the story (which starts after the next chapter ;3) and becomes a cornerstone for the real bulk of the plot. 
> 
> I am so excited to get to the next arc of this, it's honestly my favourite thing so far, and (in my opinion) really sets the entire tone of the rest of the fic.
> 
> As always, if you want to hmu at any point, you can find me @thearch1ve on tumblr, and thanks IMMENSELY to my beta/editor @sol1loqu1st! See you all in 2 weeks!

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I'm so so glad to be able to finally share this fic with you all. I've been working on this for several months now, and have a Large backlog of chapters ready, so there's not likely to be any real delay for uploads. 
> 
> Speaking of! This fic updates every second Saturday, and the chapters are all going to be about the same length as this one (about 9-10k). 
> 
> If you have any questions about this, or just want to chat, feel free to send me a message on @thearch1ve on tumblr! Thanks to my wonderful beta reader @sol1loqu1st on tumblr as well, and thanks for reading the prologue to Truthseer!


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